You Align My Stars
by bsmog
Summary: Harry Potter has been hiding since the end of the war. A request from an unlikely source to return to Hogwarts could teach him a lesson or two about life and how to live it. Post-war, EWE.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I started it six days ago, thinking it would be a quick one-shot. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until next Friday (8/19). If you've never listened to _Wildfires_by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for six days.

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><p>Harry Potter hates the stars.<p>

It's irrational and illogical, not to mention completely fucking barmy, but he does. Apparently others find peace when they look at the stars, but all Harry sees is too many white lights over top of an all-consuming darkness. Where the rest of the world finds tranquility, in the stars, Harry finds one more thing in his life that doesn't make sense. The weight of their chaos is suffocating, so much so that he's grateful for clouds and rain, because they blot out the dizzying disorder of a clear night sky.

He knows, if he thinks about it, that it isn't the stars that are the problem. They're nothing more than a symptom, a symptom of the quiet dissonance between his life and the lives of everyone around him since he watched Voldemort crumple before his eyes and beneath his spell. That moment changed everything; for the rest of the Wizarding world, it was the first moment of the rest of their lives. Lives in which there was hope and peace, lives that were filled with Ministry galas and reconstruction fundraisers and weddings and babies.

For Harry, it had felt like the end. Seven years he'd spent, seven of seventeen, with the knowledge that he was linked to the darkest wizard of their age. Even before he first heard the prophecy, some part of him had always known it would come down to one or the other.

In the end, when only Harry still stood, watching those around him break down in relief and hope and joy, he was empty. He'd saved the world at seventeen.

What the hell was he supposed to do next?

Ten years have passed since then, and he still hasn't found an answer to that question. His unending supply of money is still unending, owing to his inheritances and the Wizarding world's need to continue to pay tribute to their bloody saviour. The Auror corps has stopped trying to recruit him after his last very firm, "for the last bloody time, _fuck off_." Hermione has stopped nagging him to get a job or go back to school or do something, because he's said more or less the same thing to her as he said to the Aurors. The Weasleys leave him alone because the dead look in his eyes isn't that different from the one that was seared into their minds when Fred didn't get up from the floor at Hogwarts.

He is, for all intents and purposes, alone, although his friends are still his friends. They still love him and care about him, but they've moved on with their lives, and he doesn't begrudge them that even though he can't find one to move on with himself.

Ginny is gone, off playing professional Quidditch and dating a teammate, last he's heard. Not that he'd be with her if things had been different anyway. One of his finer moments about seven years ago included an embarrassing encounter with another of her teammates at the time that ended with Harry's realisation that it wasn't that he didn't like sex, it was that he didn't like sex with women. Ginny had done little more than nod knowingly when she found them in the back room of her flat (_her_flat, because Harry had refused to move in with her, or to get married, or really even to sleep with her, and suddenly the why behind that stubborn refusal was plain).

Harry liked the sex, he just didn't like the bloke. They lasted about four more minutes, and that was that.

So at 27, the great Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Chosen One, Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, is single, alone, unemployed, unshaven, and, as often as not, hungover.

Which is why, when a menacing owl beats its beak on his bedroom window without pause for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds one morning (he has no idea what morning, because he has little use for dates, and if he's honest, he doesn't even know if it's morning, because he has about as much use for time), Harry drags himself from his bed and snatches a scroll from the bloody animal's clutches, but still gives him treats in spite of his irritation. He hasn't had an owl in months, much less one carrying a message with the Hogwarts seal on it, and frankly, Harry is curious to know who's left on earth that he hasn't told to fuck off enough times to be left alone.

When he opens the scroll and squints at the precise, angular script - absently thinking this would be easier with his glasses, but having no bloody idea where they are because he can't see without them to _find_them - his interest is piqued. And he's not sure he remembers the last time he was all that interested in anything.

When he scans the bottom of the parchment, holding it so close to his face that it flutters with every breath, and sees the signature at the bottom, he feels a surge of something he can only vaguely remember as adrenaline course through his body.

_Regards,_  
><em>Draco Malfoy<em>

"Draco Malfoy," Harry whispers, and his voice is harsh and raspy against the silence of Grimmauld Place.

The barrage of memories that go along with those two words, that one name, is so overpowering that Harry nearly needs to sit down. Blond hair and a deceitful, condescending gaze. An outstretched hand that Harry doesn't take. A foot crashing into his nose so hard he saw stars and _heard_pain. Terrified grey eyes flickering over his distorted face at Malfoy Manor under the insane gaze of Bellatrix Lestrange. Screams of terror in a room full of fire. A broken, defeated family, set apart from the rest when it was all over.

What the fuck does Draco Malfoy want with him after all these years? And what is he doing sending a letter from Hogwarts?

Harry rubs his eyes and fumbles around on all the flat surfaces near his bed until he locates his glasses, which he has to spell clean, since apparently he's picked them up by the lenses and has covered them in fingerprints. He pulls on the nearest pair of crumpled jeans from his floor - who needs a closet when there's a perfectly good floor anyway - and stumbles to the kitchen for a cup of tea, the scroll bearing Malfoy's name still gripped in his fist.

He resists the urge to read it while the water boils, while his tea steeps, while he waits for the only-slightly-questionable bread in his cupboard to toast. It isn't until he sits at his table in the uncomfortable silence of a very large house that's only inhabited by one inconsequential person that he smooths the parchment in front of him and reads it properly.

_Potter_-

Harry's not sure what it is, but he can _hear_Malfoy when he reads the words on the page. For some reason, it makes him smile. He tries again.

_Potter - _

_I'm uncertain if you're aware, but I've recently been awarded the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. Evidently Minerva has decided that the best way to make sure students know how to fight dark magic is to bring in a former expert. Doubtless you'd agree she'd find anyone more qualified outside of Azkaban, except perhaps yourself. _

_I've a matter I wish to discuss with you in regards to some of my lessons. Much as it pains me to say it, Potter, I require your assistance. I wonder if you might be amenable to meeting with me, here at the school. I could meet you in Hogsmeade if you prefer, but I'm told you're not much for adoring crowds these days. Something we have in common, I see. _

_If it isn't too much trouble, do send a reply back so I can make alternate arrangements if necessary. I'd be concerned it's cutting into your hero time, but I hear things. I know you're not too busy. _

_Think it over, Potter. Just don't take too long, they do have exams in the spring._

_Regards,_  
><em>Draco Malfoy<em>

Malfoy needs his help. Malfoy is a _teacher_? Malfoy needs _his _help? _Teaching? Children?_

Harry shakes his head and realises he's started muttering those words out loud into the empty kitchen. Still, there's _something_ that makes him want to go. Maybe it's that connection to whatever they once had, full of passion and fire and disdain. Or maybe it's Malfoy's complete lack of tact about Harry's...complete lack of a life.  
>Or maybe he's just bloody <em>bored<em>, and this is the first thing that's so much as roused his curiosity in ages. Disinterest in most things and dislike of the rest means he hasn't got much to show for the last ten years, outside of a string of bad dates, several horribly-slanted Day-In-The-Life interviews in various news publications, inconsequential travel to places he doesn't really remember or care about. Yet for all their probing and questions and prods, none of his friends have been able to make him consider a change. But something about Malfoy's _I know you're not too busy_lights the tiniest spark in Harry, and he scratches his head while he looks blankly around the kitchen for a quill and some parchment.

In the end, he settles for little more than a scrap, and he finds a dull pencil in a drawer, but it'll do. Without thinking, because he knows if he does that, he'll just keep thinking and never _write_, he scribbles out a quick message.

_Malfoy -_

_I'll come to Hogwarts. This afternoon, unless I hear otherwise. After all, you said yourself I'm not very busy. _

_Harry_

He snorts and wanders back upstairs to find, unsurprisingly, that Malfoy's owl is still scowling at him from his bedroom windowsill. He sends the bird on its way and looks around, still a bit lost, a bit confused, and more than a bit curious.

He also has no idea what to wear, because he thinks perhaps impromptu visits to Hogwarts to see Draco Malfoy might be exactly why one needs a closet, instead of keeping all of one's wardrobe on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I started it six days ago, thinking it would be a quick one-shot. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until next Friday (8/19). If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for six days.

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><p>Several hours later, Harry is showered, clean-shaven, and, though he looks pretty much the same as always in the clothes department, he has checked to be sure all the buttons on his shirt are done up properly, and he's managed to tuck it in. His socks match and his fly isn't open, and frankly, considering his usual attire, he sees all of this as rather a victory.<p>

He also knows Malfoy will give him no such credit.

Shrugging, he picks up his wand and his coat and Apparates without a second thought to the front gates at Hogwarts. He stands there for a moment, acclimating to the chill and the clean, fresh air that doesn't exist in London. Time stands still for Harry at Hogwarts, which is illogical, since he helped rebuild the school that stands before him, and he saw its charred ruins before that. But something about the entrance still makes him feel very small and very child-like, as though this place will never be impressed that he killed Voldemort. He likes that.

The school permits him entry though, which he supposes is not much of a surprise. There's a lot of his magic in this place; it knows him and he knows it. He shuffles quietly down corridors and up staircases, his feet guiding him to what he's certain will still be the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. He keeps his head down and avoids the eyes of small clusters of students, robed in Hogwarts uniforms and House ties, though he does note with a small pang of satisfaction that there are groups with red and gold _and_green and silver, and they're all laughing and joking and carrying on as friends.

The old, familiar classroom is empty, and the door to the office above it is open. Before Harry can decide if he should knock or just walk right in, a voice startles him from inside the office.

"Come in, Potter," Malfoy says.

Harry feels a pang as he walks up the stairs into the door. It's fuzzy and distant and not really painful at all, but this place is full of things that make him look back in a way he hasn't done in years. So many memories. Night after night of autographing photographs of that barmy git Lockhart. Night after night of scratching _I must not tell lies_into that parchment and into his hand. He glances down at the fine lines of white that still remain and shudders.

And Remus. Remus Lupin, whose son never knew his parents because they died whilst Harry lived. One of the best men Harry ever knew, and Harry can _feel _him in this place.

At least until he opens the door, because this is Malfoy's office now, make no mistake about it. It's pristine and elegant and subtle, and at the far end, slouched over a gleaming mahogany desk that's covered in books and parchment, is Draco Malfoy himself. And he too is pristine and elegant, not a blond hair out of place, not a speck of lint to be found on perfectly-pressed robes. He looks up at Harry with an appraising glance, and Harry feels a bit like he's being sized up, though the malice he thought would be in those grey eyes is missing.

"I wasn't certain you'd come," Malfoy says, and gestures to a chair near his desk. "Sit, won't you? Tea?"

Harry is off-balance, thrown even more so with every solicitous, pleasant word that comes out of Malfoy's mouth. It must be evident in his face, because Malfoy rolls his eyes.

"I'm not going to hex you, you prat, and I'm not under some spell. Sit your arse down, I'll explain. And I'll only ask one more time. Tea?"

Harry nods dumbly, but does manage to sit, suddenly very aware of his posture in the chair compared to what he can only think of as easy grace from the man across from him.

_Merlin_, Harry thinks before he can stop himself, _Malfoy aged well_.

And he has. The pointy angles of his teenage years have softened, making him far less severe. The trademark blond hair is still there, but it's also less severe, and Harry thinks the casual messiness is actually completely intentional. There are the slightest lines visible at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and these astonish Harry, because Harry thinks they must be laugh lines.

He's not sure he's ever heard Malfoy really laugh before in his life. Not in happiness, anyway.

The grey eyes, which are still regarding him with amused annoyance, are clearer than when they were young, lacking the pain and stress that had nearly broken them as seventeen year old boys. He's tall, Harry notes, when he stands to pour the tea, and thinner than Harry, though only barely.

He's bloody handsome is what he is, and Harry is gobsmacked to realise he's thinking it. He thinks he'd blush, if he could remember how.

"Look, Potter," Malfoy says, sitting back down. "I can see you're still as eloquent as ever, so let me get right to the point, shall I?"

"No small talk, Malfoy?" Harry asks, unable to help himself now that he's recovered from the shock that he probably finds his childhood nemesis attractive a decade later. "No inquiries about why it was I was available on such short notice or barbs about my clothes?"

Malfoy studies him for a moment, as if considering. Harry has the briefest sensation that this must be what it's like to be one of his students, fidgeting while Malfoy decides how many detentions to dole out for some transgression.

"I know why you were available," Malfoy says after another long moment. "It seems, from what I can tell, that you're always _available_, as you like to put it, since you seem not to do much other than putter around my dead relatives' house and mope. Which is your right, seeing as you're both vastly wealthy and the saviour of us all." Malfoy's voice is low and once again without the mocking tone Harry expects. "I didn't bring it up because I didn't think there was any point in mentioning that you're doing nothing, since you probably already know that. And your wardrobe is deplorable, but you look good in those jeans, so I didn't see the point in complaining."

Now Harry really is gaping. He knows his mouth is open, knows his eyes are as wide as saucers, but this is a whole new kind of unexpected. He thought to find some semblance of order from Malfoy in the old insults they used to share. Instead he's thrown on his arse by the strangest mix of kindness and what he's fairly certain was flirting he's ever encountered.

"And call me Draco, won't you? I listen to these insufferable children call each other by their surnames every day and they sound like complete prats."

"You still call me Potter," Harry says, lacking anything else to say.  
>"Yes, well, you haven't given me permission to call you anything else," Malf - <em>Draco<em> says. "Besides, you're thrown off enough as it is. If I'd called you anything other than Potter or _you speccy git_, you'd think I was under some curse, or that I was someone else using Polyjuice."

Harry feels himself smile in spite of his confusion.

"Fair point," he says, still bewildered. Then again, he doesn't know why he should be surprised. Draco Malfoy has been able to get beneath his skin since the first time they met. Now, he feels his flesh prickling at the old memories, and he both welcomes it and shivers against it. "You'll have to call me Harry then, although I'll likely still answer to the speccy git bit as well."

Malfoy - no, damn it, _Draco_- smiles then, a real smile that lights his eyes and causes the little lines Harry noticed around them to crinkle up.

"Thought you might. Once a speccy git, always a speccy git. Though even the glasses aren't as bad as they once were." Draco says, once again fixing Harry with an appraising look.

"Hermione tells me they're trendy," Harry says, pushing the rectangular frames up the bridge of his nose.

"They're a marked improvement, I'll have to give my regards to Ms. Granger when I see her next," Draco says dryly.

"When you see...do you often see Hermione?" Harry blinks in confusion.

"Harry, much as it pains me to tell you this, the rest of us do occasionally venture out. Hermione's work in cursebreaking does sort of influence what I teach here. We often find ourselves in the same circles. Clever woman, even if she did marry a ginger."

Once again there's no malice in the smooth, refined voice, and Harry cannot for the life of him figure out just exactly where this all went quite so pear-shaped. Draco Malfoy just called Hermione by her first name. _And_paid her a compliment. And could find no worse insult for Ron than to call him a ginger, which isn't really insulting as much as it's statement of the obvious.

Harry wonders what else his friends no longer bother to tell him. He wonders what else he doesn't bother to ask them. He wonders, for the first time in a long time, what he's missed while everyone else is living their lives.

"Are you sure you're well, Potter?" Draco is looking closely at him, leaned across the desk.

"I...no," Harry says. "I'm not sure at all. What did you want my help with? And I thought you were going to call me Harry."

Draco raises his eyebrows until they nearly reach his hairline. "I did. Several times, in fact, but you seemed not to respond. I thought perhaps you'd forgotten your own name, or how to answer to it. Merlin, you really don't get out much, do you?"

Harry shakes his head, unsure what else to do. Draco releases what sounds like a long-suffering sigh.

"Look, I'll make this easy on you, shall I? As I'm certain you'll recall, there are a number of spells and charms that must be taught to defend against the Dark Arts, regardless of what threat the world is or is not currently under. And, as I mentioned, I'm more than qualified to teach most of these, particularly considering the experience I've had casting their, erm, antecedents."

He has the grace to look sheepish, and Harry has the grace not to smirk or sneer, or even to say a word, because this new Malfoy seems to have shed his bitterness in favour of a quiet, genuine honesty that is both disarming and fascinating.

"The trouble is, there's one that's eluded me my whole life. I'm certain if I saw a mind healer, there would be some rubbish analysis of how infrequently I was hugged as a child, but I've never mastered a Patronus."

He says it so matter-of-factly that Harry can do nothing more than blink at him.

"You can't do a Patronus?" he asks, more curious than incredulous. It's not unheard of for a wizard or witch not to be able to cast this spell or that charm, but Harry is still intrigued. Draco is a powerful wizard, he always has been. The strength behind his spells, though not quite on the level of Harry's has always rivalled most of the witches and wizards of their age. It seems almost unbelievable that he can't manage a charm that Harry do almost in his sleep.

But Draco shakes his head, sighing again. "Not much for truly happy memories when I was supposed to be learning it, and then, frankly, there wasn't anyone to teach me. Once the Dementors were gone and you so graciously kept me out of Azkaban, I didn't think much of it. But as you know, there are many who say the Dementors may be brought back, and I've no interest in my students being caught unawares by one without proper defences."

Harry has heard, in fact, and he's disgusted. It seems that the Ministry has a bit of a short memory, and there are some overzealous individuals who believe that Azkaban is too lenient without its old guards. The trouble is, as Harry knows, history has a habit of repeating itself, and Draco is right to assume his students may once again encounter the wretched things, should the Ministry have its way.

Suddenly though, the implication of what Draco is telling him sinks in, and he sets aside the distant worry about the Ministry bringing back Dementors in favour of the immediate one in this room.  
>"You...want me to teach the Patronus charm?" he asks incredulously. "To <em>you<em>?"

Draco laughs. "Actually, that would be wonderful," he says, "but it wasn't what I was aiming for. I'm not sure I can learn one at this stage. I propose you teach it to my students instead."

"I...you...you want...excuse me?" Harry stutters.

"Ah, there's the articulate Potter I knew and loved to hate," Draco grins at him, and Harry is momentarily thrown off his panic by the spark of interest that grin provokes in him.

_Bloody buggering hell, I am _not_ attracted to Draco bloody Malfoy!_

Harry doesn't even believe himself, but his mind ventures back to Draco's proposal, and he shakes his head.

"Malfoy," he says, then corrects himself as Draco quirks an eyebrow at him, "Draco, you know as well as I do that I've barely done a thing in years. I'd be lucky to still be able to conjure a Patronus."

That's a lie. Harry knows it, and by the sardonic expression on Draco's face, Draco knows it.

"Fine, okay, I can do one, but _students_? They'll know who I am. They'll ask questions. They'll want to know..." He trails off, overwhelmed at the idea of standing before dozens of youngsters who were raised on stories of his heroics, only to learn when they got older that their hero is little more than a recluse who doesn't bother to get dressed most days.

"First of all," Draco says, his voice still calm and quiet and even and so unlike the mayhem of Harry's mind that Harry can't decide if he should cling to it or run from it. "They will have questions, but they are still _my_ students. In _my_class. They will ask questions about you and your...situation only if you invite them to. Otherwise, they'll stick to their lesson if they know what's good for them."

"Merlin, that's rich coming from the person who got away with everything in school," Harry says without thinking. He often speaks without thinking these days, when he bothers to speak at all.

"Let's get one thing clear right now," Draco says, the first hints of cold creeping into his voice that Harry has heard since he entered the office. "I survived the war, and that awful bloody trial, and years of hexes and curses and glares and public shunning afterward. I deserved every one, and I'm not about to complain. I was a complete prat when we were students here, I treated everyone badly, some worse than others." Draco half-stands, leaning so far over the desk that Harry can almost feel his breath when he speaks. "As far as I'm concerned, that boy died in the war. I'm not proud of him, and I don't mourn him. I've changed, and I've made my apologies the best I know how to everyone who's left that I wronged, save you. And we'll get to that. But in the meantime, I expect to be treated as the man I am now, not the boy I was when I was 16 and stupid and under my father's bigoted thumb. If you have a problem with that, leave now. I'll find someone else to help me."

Harry's chest is tight and he knows his eyes are wide again, watching Draco glower at him from across his desk. All Harry's wanted was some kind of direction, something to be when he wasn't The Boy Who Lived anymore, and while he's faffed about doing nothing, Draco Malfoy has become something that...well, has become _something_.

"I'm sorry," he says, for lack of anything else. "I...obviously you're not the same person, or you wouldn't be here. I'm not very good at this, Draco." He gestures vaguely between the two of them, and Draco closes his eyes for a moment, evidently searching for his composure.

When he opens them, they're clear again, grey and sharp, but still without the icy quality Harry thought was a permanent fixture. Then again, that had been when they were boys, and apparently very little is the same as it was back then. Harry could get lost in those eyes, he thinks, and then just as quickly wonders when exactly he started thinking about getting lost in _anyone's_eyes.

"How about this," Draco says. "I won't bait you too much about wasting the last ten years of your life, and you don't hold me to every single thing I did before you started wasting your life, and we'll see how things go? You can stay here for a couple of days, see if you're comfortable with the idea of being at the school, and we'll revisit the Patronus discussion then. I've a few extra days before it has to be dealt with, and I know Minerva will come do it for me, should you decide you're not interested."

Harry chews on his bottom lip and Draco's offer.

"Why didn't you ask her to begin with?" He's stalling, looking for a way to get back to the comfortable silence of his home, except there's a pesky voice in the back of his head that's reminding him he isn't really comfortable there, he just is more comfortable than he is anywhere else. "And I haven't been wasting my life!" He adds the last a bit too late, and Draco only rolls his eyes.

"Minerva suggested I contact you first. She said you had more experience learning a Patronus at a young age, and far more success." Draco fiddles with the quill on his desk. "She also thought it might be good for you to get out and do something."

"Been a long time since someone tried to meddle," Harry says absently, and wants to slap himself as soon as the words are out, because apparently he's speaking without thinking again.

Much to his surprise though, Draco only laughs. "She likes to meddle, it's what makes her a good Headmistress. You'll recall the post sort of requires a meddlesome personality, surely?"  
>Draco's laughter is soothing and contagious, and Harry laughs with him, thinking of Dumbledore, who meddled in everything, whether it was life-and-death or not.<p>

"So?" Draco asks after a moment, and the laughter decides it for Harry, though he supposes his mind was made up before that, because he's _feeling_something while he sits here in this office, and he thinks he might want more.

"A couple of days," he says slowly. "And then we'll see."

Harry bites his lip. What the hell has he just agreed to? But Draco rises in a fluid motion and extends his hand across the desk. His face is sure, confident, unafraid, and Harry stares at the outstretched hand for only an instant, his memory flashing back 16 long years to the day that shaped the two of them for the next seven. Then he stands and grasps it, looking uncertainly into Draco's face.

"Thank you," Draco says, and he squeezes Harry's hand. "And Harry?"

Draco still hasn't let go, and Harry realises he hasn't made a move to release Draco's hand either. He wonders, absently, how long it's been since he's touched anyone at all, and then dismisses the question before he can start _thinking_again.

"Hm?" he says. _Always so articulate,_his inner mind supplies, in a decidedly Dracoish voice.

"I'm sorry," Draco says, his voice still quiet and steady, but Harry catches the nervous swipe of a tongue across his bottom lip, and the hand gripping his is holding on with a bit more desperation than before.

And in the face of those two small words, Harry is flooded with emotion. He's standing in this office, at this school, and he's awash with wasted moments, hours, _years_. He squeezes back, realising he's just as desperate.

"So am I," he says, just as quietly, though he hears a waver in his own voice that had been missing from Draco's. "For all of it."

One side of Draco's mouth quirks up just the tiniest bit, and Harry feels tension rush out of him that he hadn't realised was there. Draco drops his hand, though their fingertips brush for what Harry thinks is just a little longer than necessary, and comes around to Harry's side of the desk.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Draco says, and there's no mistaking warmth in his voice now, and Harry basks in it. It feels like the sun on bare skin, or the soothing glide of hot tea on his insides, or the licking heat of a fire in the hearth on a cold, rainy day.

He sucks in a deep breath and smiles at Draco, and allows himself to be led out of the office and the classroom, down the familiar corridors to unfamiliar rooms, all the while wondering how Draco Malfoy has managed in the span of 30 minutes to get him to agree to more, think about more, _feel_ more than he has in nearly ten years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I thought this would be a quick one-shot, and it got out of control. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until next Friday (8/19). If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days.

To everyone who is reading, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I'll respond as soon as I can, but in the meantime, please know I really do appreciate every one of your reviews, adds, hits, etc.

* * *

><p>Harry is still thinking the next morning, and has begun to come to the conclusion that he either should never have come to Hogwarts, or that he should have come years ago, because he can't seem to stop thinking. After he settled himself in his rooms - large, comfortable, private, and apparently just up the corridor from Draco's - he Floo'd Grimmauld Place. He only stayed in the hearth long enough to ask a very irritated Kreacher to hunt down some clean (and preferably pressed) clothes, a spare set of robes if he still owns one, the last book he set down on his nightstand, and, after a moment's consideration, his invisibility cloak and the Marauder's Map. Those last are in the bottom of a trunk in his room, long untouched, but something about being back in this place makes him itch for the things that had once been staples in his life.<p>

He owls Hermione to tell her where he is and why, adding a post-scripted _Malfoy approves of my new glasses_before wandering off in search of a bird. Teachers needn't go all the way to the owlery, it turns out, for which Harry is grateful. He's not ready for the curious eyes that he expects to follow him through the castle. Not just yet.

With nothing else to do, he pulls the invisibility cloak from his things and, seemingly without thinking, finds himself standing in front of the entrance to Draco's classroom. Class is in session, and he can hear the clipped, authoritative voice echoing from the front of the room.

"No, Mr. Scamander, the Boggart takes the form of whatever the person seeing it fears the most, regardless of whether or not, as you say, the fear _makes sense._ Honestly, you seem to have missed the definition of _fear_."

Harry laughs softly. The words sound so very Malfoy, but the tone is...fond? And when Harry peers around the door frame, he also notices that the student in question is grinning sheepishly, even if his ears are a bit red. It occurs to Harry, suddenly, that this boy must be related to Luna's sons. Luna's boys are too young to be at Hogwarts just yet, he's sure, but perhaps Rolf has brothers...

His musings are cut off as he suddenly hears Draco say, "That's all for today, remember I want ten inches on the origins of the Riddikulus charm on my desk by Monday, and begin reading up on the Patronus charm for next weeks' lessons. Draco looks at the doorway where Harry is standing so pointedly that Harry almost groans. He hadn't meant to be caught spying, he just didn't want to be seen.

He deftly moves aside as Draco's students file out, staying hidden until the last few stragglers are out the door.  
>"Take the ridiculous thing off, Harry, you're not a child anymore you know." Draco's words are once again very Malfoy, but the same fondness was present in his voice, and Harry supposes his own face is sheepish just like young Mr. Scamander's had been.<p>

"I didn't want them to see me, I only wanted to..." Honestly, Harry has no idea what he wanted, so he trails off.

"They're children, you know. They'll be interested for a minute and then get on with their far-more-important lives." Draco says, mock serious. "Yes, the Saviour of the Wizarding World is all well and good, but the location of their Hogsmeade permission slips and who's got the latest from Weasley's bloody joke shop are far more pressing matters."

Harry smiles. "I envy them," he says, wistfully.

Draco snorts. "You've lost your permission slip or you're behind on the latest Weasel merchandise?"

Harry raises an eyebrow at the use of _Weasel_, but Draco is grinning. Right. The new Malfoy makes jokes. He must remember that.

"We were never just students, were we?" he says finally. "There was always something else out there. Kind of got in the way of that whole normal childhood thing."

Draco's still smiling, but he shakes his head.

"Funny thing, Potter," he says, coming around from his desk and gesturing for Harry to follow him from the classroom. "Sometimes it's more fun to do kid-things as adults. Did that wretched elf happen to send your broom along with that cloak of yours?"

Several hours later, Harry sits comfortably in front of a cheery fire in Draco's rooms, a glass of very delicious - and very expensive, he's sure - firewhiskey in his hand. He's trying to scowl as Draco laughs at him for the hundredth time since they've come in from flying, but it's really no good. The alcohol has taken the edge off the buzz of nerves he feels around Draco, and if he's honest, he deserves it anyway.

"Honestly, if I'd known you needed a child's broom, I'd have gotten a trainer from Hooch," Draco gasps.

His cheeks are flushed from whiskey and laughter and the warmth of the flame, and Harry knows he's staring openly, but he can't seem to look away. The contrast to the way Harry's been feeling for so long is all at once crushing and intoxicating. Draco is so open, so alive, and Harry is envious.

"I most certainly did _not_need a child's broom," Harry splutters in protest. "I slipped reaching for the Snitch, that's all."

It's a lie, of course. He hasn't flown in ages, and he's horribly rusty, and the tumble he took from his broom was so amateurish that he really should be humiliated. But instead he's sort of enjoying reliving it over and over while Draco Malfoy takes the piss out of him for it. Because no one's done that for ages either.

Draco shakes his head, eyes still full of mirth, and sips at his drink. It's grown dark outside, and the firelight makes the room look warm and small, and Harry realises he's irrationally comfortable here. Draco, it seems, has other ideas.

"Did you bring a proper cloak?" he asks abruptly, getting up from his chair and taking Harry's glass.

Harry shakes his head, confused. Draco rolls his eyes and disappears through a door at the back of the cosy little sitting room. When he returns, the throws a thick, soft sweater at Harry.

"Put that on, and do try not to stretch it too much, will you?"

Harry snorts. "Where're we going?" he asks.

"Outside," is the only answer he gets, and he scrambles to pull the sweater over his head and follow as Draco strides from the rooms and into the corridor.

It isn't until they've started up the staircase that Harry realises they're headed to the Astronomy Tower, and his insides go a bit cold. He'd been up here since Dumbledore's death of course, and of course Draco surely has, because he teaches here. But the last time they were up here together - though perhaps Draco isn't aware of the together part - was that night. He drags himself up the last of the stairs though, because Draco is too far ahead of him now to ask about it.

When he emerges onto the tower's platform, the view is breathtaking as always, even if Harry is painfully aware of the press of the stars and the night sky. Draco's silhouette at the rail is even more breathtaking in its own way, darker than the night. A man-shaped hole in the chaos of the stars, and Harry is drawn to him instantly.

"I know what you're thinking," Draco says without turning around.

Harry starts. "Hm?"

"You're wondering why I'm dragging you back to the scene of the crime, as it were," Draco says softly. "Though I know you know it wasn't me. Severus told me you were here that night, you know."

"He was a good man," Harry muses. "A right foul git, but I think he had a good heart. Sounds oddly like someone else I know, actually."

Draco laughs, though it's a hollow sound, missing all the mirth from a few moments ago. "He was an arse, and so am I, Harry. But he wanted to live, and so did I. So _do_I. And not in a world ruled by a tyrant."

"I couldn't save him," Harry says, though he doesn't know why. It's not an apology, just a statement really, and Harry isn't even sure he's sorry.

"You saved me," Draco says, his tone still as even as if he was talking about what they ate for supper.

"I did," Harry replies, because it's true, but also because he somehow wants Draco to know it was significant for him as well. He doesn't want to cheapen it by saying something like _how could I not _or _you'd have done the same_. Going back into the Fiendfyre had been a choice, and a bloody hard one, but he couldn't leave Malfoy in there to die. And not because Draco saved Harry even before that, but because he wasn't a killer. He was just a boy, and he didn't want to know someone - anyone - died when he could have tried to stop it.

And no one - not even Malfoy on his worst day - deserved to die in that fire.

"Will you let me teach you a Patronus?" Harry asks suddenly.

Draco turns to look at him. "Why?"

Harry runs a hand through unkempt hair that's even wilder after flying for several hours. He's been thinking about this since Draco asked him to help, really. He just...hadn't really intended to ask. Speaking before thinking again, apparently.

"I'm...I'd like to help, I think," he says carefully. "But I'm not sure I can teach it. It's been a long time."

"Harry," Draco says softly, "you taught half our class in fifth year how to cast one. In the span of a few days, and you were 15. I'm not asking for every student in my class to produce one, I just want them to know how."

"Exactly," Harry says. "I taught them then because I was using one all the bloody time. Between Dementors and, well, you lot," Draco snorts, "I was using a lot of spells I haven't even thought about in years. I just...if I'm going to do it, I need to start small."

"Merlin, Harry, what the hell are you so afraid of all of a sudden?" Draco bursts out, still not mocking or malicious, but full of surprise. "They're _children_! This is Hogwarts! It's the safest place we've got, and you know it. You helped make it that way after the last time. You can't bring back the Dark Lord, you can't kill any of them with a simple Patronus charm. You really can't even fail, because it's my class and they're my students, and frankly, I won't let you fall on your face in front of them."

Harry is bewildered, and he takes a step back from the rail where he'd been leaning next to Draco.

"It's not...I'm...oh sod it all," he growls. "I know it hasn't escaped your notice that I've been hiding away for nine years, Draco. If you think you can do away with nine years of solitude and self-loathing in one day, you're horribly mistaken!"

He's shocked at himself, both for the words and how vehemently he means them. Who'd have thought it possible...Harry Potter, war hero and saviour, admitting to Draco Malfoy that he all but hates himself. Hates the man he's become, because he's become invisible, and he's allowed it. No, not allowed it. Welcomed it.

"I've no intention of doing away with anything," Draco says, still leaning casually on the rail. His tone is still casual too, and Harry wants to grit his teeth or scream or shake the bloody idiot. Which, for about the thousandth time in 24 hours, he realises is another rusty, foreign sensation. "I have no interest in the past, Harry, which you might consider for a moment before you get all self-righteous. As I told you yesterday, I'm not that person anymore. I can't wipe the slate clean, or pretend we've never met. All I can do is ask you to help me with something on Monday. The amount of excess baggage from our school days that you choose to bring with you if you accept is up to you."

Harry is silent, considering. His first thought, which almost makes him smile in spite of his surprise and mild annoyance, is _who the hell is this level-headed bloke, and what the fuck has he done with Malfoy_? His second is no less disconcerting in its logic.

"You brought me up here to show me it's not then anymore, didn't you?" he asks, slowly approaching the rail again.

Draco looks at him, and Harry has to suppress the sharp intake of breath that almost comes with the moonlight shining on blond hair and reflecting into bottomless grey eyes. His skin glows in the blue-white light, and he looks almost ethereal. Soothing. Beautiful.

"I brought you up here because now, today, to you and me, this is just the Astronomy Tower," Draco says. "Bad things happened all over this school. But they happened everywhere. The Manor, the Burrow, London, the Ministry, every place has scars, just like you do, and I do. But they're just places now, and new things have to happen in them so that the old ones don't hurt so much."

Harry closes his eyes, letting Draco's words wash over him, wondering if he can take that step.

"I brought you up here, Harry, because it's a beautiful night. Just...try to enjoy it."

Draco smiles at him before he turns back to look out over the night sky. Harry doesn't think his sideways shuffle that brings their shoulders together is accidental, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't move away, either, because like their handshake the day before, the simple act of _touching _someone else is heady and overwhelming. They stand there for ages, Draco looking at the stars and Harry looking at Draco - because he hates the damn stars, and Draco Malfoy loves them, and he'd rather watch Draco look happy than feel the crushing weight of the universe any day - until Harry shivers so violently against Draco's shoulder that Draco turns to look at him sharply.

"You could have mentioned you were cold," he says. "We're wizards, Harry, there are charms for that."

Harry laughs ruefully.

"I was distracted," he offers, and is grateful for the darkness concealing the blush on his face, because it wasn't the stars that were distracting him.

"Hmmm, indeed," Draco says cryptically. "It's late. If you want to teach me a bloody Patronus tomorrow, you'd best get some rest. I think you'll find I'm not the best pupil."

"You're agreeing then?" Harry lets hope rise in his chest. Perhaps he can do this after all, or else he can convince Draco that he _can't_do it, before he has to stand in front of a room full of students.

"Yes, Potter, fine. I'll be your bloody pupil if it means you'll show up in class next week." Draco says, and nudges Harry's shoulder, smiling before turning to descend the stairs. "I'll see you in my classroom after breakfast."

"Good night, Draco," Harry mutters quietly, still smiling as Draco's back disappears down the stairs.

"Good night, Harry," Draco calls, and Harry laughs. Of course he'd heard. Of course.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:**All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I thought this would be a quick one-shot, and it got out of control. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until next Friday (8/19). If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days.

To everyone who is reading, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I'll respond as soon as I can, but in the meantime, please know I really do appreciate every one of your reviews, adds, hits, etc.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, lessons with Draco go about as well as Draco himself had predicted. He's compliant enough as a pupil, and Harry finds that explaining the basics of the Patronus is as easy as he remembers. But after nearly three hours, Draco is flushed, slightly damp with sweat, scowling, and decidedly <em>without<em>a Patronus.

"Are you sure you're thinking of the happiest thing you can?" Harry asks for the thousandth time.

"I'm not _slow_, you prat." Draco glares. "I know what _happy_ means. It just doesn't _work_!"

Harry sighs and rubs his hand absently across his jaw. He should shave, he thinks as he scrapes the stubble there.

"Just...let's take a break," he says finally. "Try again tomorrow. You're not going to find anything happy in that mood."

Draco rolls his eyes and flashes two fingers at him in a gesture that makes Harry laugh.

"So common, Malfoy," he taunts, unable to help himself. "Isn't that a gesture unbecoming a Malfoy?"

Draco eyes him for a moment, and Harry makes sure to fix a smile to his face, just to be sure Draco knows he's joking. It's only been two days, after all.

"I think," Draco says, his voice suddenly dripping with something decidedly _not_like exasperation, "you'll find I do a lot of things these days that are unbecoming a Malfoy, Harry."

Harry gapes, and Draco winks cheekily.

"I've assignments to grade this afternoon," he says, his tone right back to normal. "But perhaps you'd join me for supper?"

Harry nods, and Draco turns on his heel and stalks up the stairs to his office, shutting the door and leaving Harry surprised and more than a little turned on.

_Unbecoming a Malfoy. _Merlin. Harry wonders absently if Hogwarts will even permit a cold shower, then dismisses the thought and heads for the one place that can quash any inappropriate thoughts he could have.

The library.

Enough hours later that the light outside has dimmed to the grey of twilight and Harry's stomach is so loud that if there were students about, they'd glare at him, he leaves again. He's frustrated and has absolutely no more idea about why Draco can't cast a Patronus than he did hours ago. Maybe he really just doesn't have a happy enough memory.

Harry is perplexed about that though. Draco seems so...together. So normal. He must have a thought in there somewhere that's happy enough...

He shrugs and stretches, wincing at the pops that run up his back and through his shoulders, and realises he's to meet Draco for supper, and he's still wearing the rumpled clothes he'd thrown on when he rolled out of bed.

Bollocks.

A hasty shower and a fresh change of clothes later, and he only has to endure a few choice words from Draco about the punctuality of Gryffindors. They eat companionably, Draco's irritation from their earlier "lesson" gone entirely, and Harry's Draco-induced nerves calmed by the convenient appearance of wine with supper.

He can't even say he's surprised when Draco rises and asks again about a cloak. This time, Harry gestures to the jumper he's wearing, only colouring slightly when Draco notes that it's _his_, and the same one he'd loaned Harry last night.

In Harry's defence, though he doesn't offer it, the thing smells bloody fantastic, and it's softer than anything he's ever owned. He's half a mind never to return it, but the illogical (and until recently shut down) part of his brain reminds him that the scent of Draco will wear off eventually. That thought is enough to turn a slight pinking of the cheeks into a blush so red he probably looks feverish.

He follows Draco up the steps to the Astronomy Tower again, watching him walk to the rail and lean out to peer up into the night sky.

"You like them, don't you?" Harry asks, curiosity getting the better of him as he takes in the peaceful, contented look on Draco's moonlit face.

Draco turns and looks at him quizzically.

"The stars," Harry says, clarifying. "You like them."

"The stars?" Draco repeats, and he snorts. "Sure, Potter, I like them. As much as one can like something that much bigger than oneself."

Harry rolls his eyes at the mocking tone in Draco's voice, and the return of the _Potter_that was dismissed in Draco's office earlier.

"Why?" he asks, gritting his teeth for another round of the patented Malfoy condescension, even though part of him already knows it won't come. He wants to understand, he really does, because _this_Malfoy - Draco - doesn't make sense, and Harry desperately needs him to make sense, or he'll have nothing left to cling to.

The insults don't come though, not that Harry is terribly surprised, and not that he'd really hoped for them. Draco turns, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Promise, Harry. Look at all that promise. All that potential. All that energy. It isn't good or bad, it's just," he waves a hand, "there. Stretching out into forever."

Harry looks. Squints. Stares. Takes a step closer to Draco, pleading with his eyes and his brain to see anything in the vast expanse of sky besides a crushing nothingness lit only by mocking disarray of tiny pricks of light. When his eyes and his brain fail him, as usual, he sighs sadly and shakes his head.

"Your stars don't have any promise left for me," he says wistfully. "Whatever they're promising you, I must not be worthy of it."

Harry hears a sharp intake of breath, and when he turns his head, he sees Draco's eyes have gone hard.

"You needn't make fun, Potter. You're the one that asked what I saw. Not all of us have everything laid before us like a feast, whether we choose to partake or not." He turns and glares, and Harry has to steel himself not to shrink beneath the withering silver gaze. "Promise is all I had, you absolute git, and without it I might as well have gone off to rot in Azkaban with the rest of that lot."

Harry sighs again.

"I wasn't mocking, Malfoy. Draco. Really. I just...I can't see it. What's the world got left to promise me?"

He thinks, in a split second before everything becomes a strange nightmare, that he hears Draco growl. Or perhaps he snarls, Harry isn't sure. _What the fuck is the difference between a growl and a snarl anyway?_

Then he has no time to wonder anything at all, because he feels his wand being ripped from his sleeve at the same time he hears Draco's sharp _Expelliarmus_, and before he knows what's happening, he's being held by the front of his jumper out over the edge of the Astronomy Tower by Draco's shaking hand.

"Fuck, Malfoy, are you fucking insane? Pull me the fuck up!" Harry gasps, feeling the great _nothing_below him and trying to banish the memory of just how long it took for Dumbledore's body to hit the ground after it plunged from this very spot.

Draco just glares, and Harry can't stop the panic surging in his veins. He hasn't got a wand, and he's not sure he could move enough to hex him even if he did. His mind whirls, alternating between _Draco fucking Malfoy is going to kill me after all this time, and only because I can't see whatever he wants me to see in his sodding stars,_ and _Why the fuck didn't I practise wandless magic like Hermione told me to? _and _He's a lot stronger than he looks, and he's gorgeous when he's angry..._

Harry mentally smacks the shite out of himself for that last thought, though it's as true as the others. But now is definitely _not_ the time, because _fuck_, it's a long way to the ground. And Draco may be stronger than he looks, but Harry weighs more than he does, and adrenaline only makes you strong for a while before fatigue takes over.

"Think very carefully, Harry," Draco hisses. "Think about what you just asked me, because if you really think life has nothing left to offer you, if you really think there's no promise, then you won't care if I just," Harry feels the briefest slip of his fingers and can't contain the tiny yelp that bubbles from his throat, "let go."

"Merlin, Draco, _please_! Whatever I said, I'm sorry, just please, pull me back up. I don't want..." _To die_, his mind supplies, and he breathes in in wonder. Because it's true. It's true, and Draco wants him to acknowledge it, and suddenly _that_makes sense.

"Say it, Harry," Draco says quietly, all the anger from a moment ago gone from his face, replaced with something Harry will later call a mix of tenderness and pity, when he's not dangling over hundreds of metres of empty space.

"I don't want to die," he whispers, and feels tears escape his eyes that he hadn't known were brewing. Says it, and means it, and sobs unabashedly when Draco yanks him back to solid ground.

And into his arms, and Harry is so wrecked and put back together all at once that he doesn't even question the strong arms wrapped around his back or the soft words in his ear.

"There's no point, Harry. No point in any of it, that _is_ the point. You aren't living _for_ anything anymore. Just _live_. Live, and see what happens tomorrow." Draco is murmuring in his ear and he's clinging to the back of Draco's shirt, his face pressed against a shoulder that smells of parchment and books and the lingering dust of a library. "Everything may be different then, but the stars will be the same."

And suddenly, just like that, Harry understands. His chaos is Draco's anchor. The crushing vastness of the stars that nearly paralyses Harry with every breath is a comforting embrace to Draco in a world where he's had very little comfort. And likely fewer embraces, though Harry thinks fleetingly that he could stand in the solid reassurance of Draco's arms for hours.

"On my worst days, I come here," Draco goes on, still whispering into the side of Harry's head. "Nothing makes sense, everything's pear-shaped. I can't figure out what the fuck I'm doing _here_ of all places, teaching children to defend themselves against _me_ten years ago, and failing as often as I succeed. I haven't had sex in months or a relationship in years, I miss my mother, I hate my father, and I have few friends and even fewer who keep up with me."

Harry tightens his grip around Draco's back, not brave enough to say anything and strangely unwilling to lift his head, but still wanting to tell Draco he hears him. That he's listening.

"But the stars, Potter." Harry feels Draco's arms tighten too, maybe out of reflex against Harry's increased grip, or maybe to make a point. He doesn't know, and he doesn't give a damn, it just feels so _good_. "The stars always align. Just like they're supposed to."

Harry longs for that to be true. He longs to see alignment in the stars, to see the pictures and stories the constellations tell, to see order amidst the chaos of the black canvas. He pulls free of Draco's hold and turns, trying again. Trying harder than he's tried anything in so long that he realises he's forgotten what it's like to try, and it hurts. He shuts his eyes against the rising wave of fear that he'll miss it, that the stars won't align, and he shudders, because the fear hurts too.

"I can't remember how to feel anything except empty, Draco," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I want to, I just...can't."

The arms around him loosen and let go entirely, and just as he steels himself for harsh words or a sad look, one just like the ones he's been getting from Ron and Hermione and Molly and everyone else for years, warm, dry hands are cupping his face. Draco's thumbs swipe at more tears Harry didn't realise he shed, and gentle pressure forces his head up. Draco's eyes are magnetic, full of compassion and something that isn't understanding, but might be a wish to. Harry is transfixed.

At least until Draco brings their faces together, gently taking Harry's bottom lip between his own. His eyes are still open, and so are Harry's, and Harry _stares_ as he processes what he's feeling. Draco is _kissing_ him. And it's fucking _heaven_. He shudders as that particular thought goes through his mind, but Draco misinterprets it and pulls back, eyes searching Harry's.

"Harry?" he whispers tentatively. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't..."

Harry digs as deep as he can for the vaunted - and usually overrated - Gryffindor courage everyone espoused his whole life. He can't speak, but he manages a soft _ssshhh_, and moves toward Draco again, stopping only when their lips are a hairsbreadth apart. He wants this so badly, but only if Draco really isn't sorry. Only if Draco wants it too.

He gets his answer in another press of lips, this one a bit less gentle, but far more rewarding. Draco's tongue swipes at his bottom lip this time, and their mouths part slowly in the same instant. _Gods_, but it's been a long time since Harry's kissed anyone, much less given a damn about it, but this transcends kissing. Draco's mouth is warm and tastes of whiskey and chocolate from dessert, and his tongue is gentle and exploring and it fits _just so_ with Harry's.  
>Draco's hands are still on his face, his fingers absently, gently caressing Harry's cheeks and nose. Harry is gripping the back of Draco's sweater like a lifeline and fighting the urge to slide his fingers beneath it to feel the warm skin he knows will be there.<p>

When at last Draco pulls away, his breath is ragged and Harry is outright panting. Harry drops his head, overwhelmed, and rests his forehead on Draco's collarbone. Draco's hands slide over his shoulders in a soothing motion.

"Did you feel that?" Draco whispers after a while.

Harry nods into Draco's sweater, not trusting his voice, because he's feeling so much at the moment he may well combust.

"Good," Draco says, and gently pushes Harry away, but reaches around to take one of Harry's hands in his. "Let's get you to bed."

Harry, still unable to string two words together, follows Draco obediently down the steps, running the fingers of his free hand over his lips in wonder. When Draco leads him not to Harry's rooms, but to his own, he doesn't feel anything but relief. Draco tosses pyjama pants at him before disappearing into the bathroom, and Harry changes his clothes, mind empty except for the blissful feeling of _feeling_.

Draco emerges a few minutes later, and silently pulls Harry into bed. They settle so that Harry is resting on Draco's shoulder, and he's struck by both the intimacy of the position and the fact that he feels...taken care of. It's more than strange that he should be here, tucked under warm covers with Draco Malfoy after just two days of reacquaintance. And yet it's the best he's felt in a long time. Maybe ever. Warm fingers run through his hair, and Draco's embrace is strong enough to be comforting, but gentle enough that Harry will fall asleep in it.

"I can't save you from yourself," Draco whispers into his forehead. "I think we're beyond saving now, but if you want...something, I'll help you find it."

Harry tilts his head up. "I hate the stars," he says, and he knows it won't make sense, except it will, because he and Draco have always made sense, even when they haven't.

"I know," Draco says, just like Harry knew he would.

"I don't want to," Harry whispers.

"I'll teach you," Draco whispers back, and Harry leans up just a bit farther to close the distance between their mouths.

It's a chaste kiss, soft and sweet, the kind that promises happy dreams and restful sleep, and Harry puts his head on Draco's shoulder again. The lure of sleeping _with_ someone overrides every question and fear and uncertainty about why the hell he's in bed with Draco Malfoy, and before long, Harry is lulled to sleep by Draco's even breathing and the comfort of a hand in his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:**All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I thought this would be a quick one-shot, and it got out of control. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until the eighth one goes up. If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days.

To everyone who is reading, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I'll respond as soon as I can, but in the meantime, please know I really do appreciate every one of your reviews, adds, hits, etc.

* * *

><p>The sunlight that beams into the room the next morning is high and bright in the sky, telling Harry, as he rubs bleary eyes, that it's later than earlier, and he's probably closer to lunch than breakfast. This isn't particularly unusual; he likes sleep, and besides, it's Sunday, and he has nowhere else to be until Malfoy's class tomorrow.<p>

_Malfoy. Oh Merlin...Malfoy and I... _

Last night rushes back to him, and he starts. Peels his eyes open again, and keeps them open this time. Sure enough, this is not his bed. This isn't even his bed at Hogwarts, which means last night wasn't a dream, and he did sleep in the same bed as Draco Malfoy.

Who also kissed him. Several times. And Harry had liked it. A lot. _Oh Merlin_.

"Morning," a voice says quietly from his side, and Harry jumps.

Or he jumps as much as anyone can whilst still sprawled on his stomach and tangled in crisp white sheets. He turns his head away from the bright light of the windows to the source of the voice, and is rewarded with the sight of Draco's sleep-softened face peering down at him from a propped-up position amidst a pile of pillows. He's got a book balanced on bent knees, but otherwise looks remarkably the same as he did the night before, leading Harry to believe, and maybe hope a bit, that he's not been awake very long himself. Somehow, the notion that sharing a bed with him hasn't disturbed Draco's sleep is oddly important.

Harry evidently stares for a moment too long without moving or saying anything, because Draco begins to chew on his bottom lip in a decidedly un-Malfoy-like fashion. If Harry wasn't so fascinated by the lip in question, he might go so far as to say that Draco is nervous. Then again, if he wasn't so fascinated by the man in general, he wouldn't be gawking at him and _making_him nervous.

"Morning yourself," Harry finally murmurs, and at last has the grace to smile up at Draco, who relaxes at the words and beams at the smile.

Harry wonders if perhaps Draco was expecting an awkward morning after, and then considers that if he was anyone else, that might not be so far fetched. As it is, he's still fascinated, and more than a little grateful.

And hopeful, for the first time in more mornings than he can remember.

He thinks he should ask Draco if he slept well, or if he's been up long, or say thank you, but he discards every attempt before it starts, because even in his head they all sound hollow. Proud of himself for thinking _before _he opens his mouth for once, Harry instead elects for a silently muttered mouth-freshening charm, then pulls himself up so his face is inches from Draco's.

He peers into clear grey eyes that are watching him speculatively, but that also glimmer with amusement and maybe a little bit of pleasure. As Harry draws nearer, the lines around them crinkle up as Draco smiles in earnest. He's still smiling when Harry kisses him, and Harry notices he's smiling too, which complicates the kissing a bit, but makes it taste all that much sweeter.

Draco rolls to his side, easing Harry's precarious perch above him, and allowing them to wind their arms around one another and entwine their feet and legs beneath the covers, all with minimal breaks in the press of their lips and the slide of their tongues. Harry realises, as he grips at the back of Draco's shirt, that he _wants_, and it's exhilarating, but he also realises he wants _this_.

He's had sex over the years. Usually one-offs with one end in mind, and don't forget your coat on the way out thank you very much. But he's never, _ever_had kissing like this. He thinks he could lie here in Draco's too-long pyjamas forever, without a worry in the world other than remembering to come up for breath occasionally and wondering where his limbs stop and Draco's start where they tangle in the sheets.

There's no urgency to their kisses, nor even to the glide of fingertips under the back of a t-shirt or across a stubbled jaw. This isn't a means to an end, Harry thinks as he pants raggedly into Draco's mouth when teeth scrape at his top lip for just a second before their tongues come together again. This _is _the end. Or perhaps, his foggy brain thinks, this is the beginning.

The kisses end as they began - both their mouths curved into smiles and still nearly touching, breaths mingling and caressing hands shaking slightly.

"I think I'd like another go at that Patronus charm," Draco says, breathless, and it's the last thing Harry expected to hear.

He rubs the tip of his nose against the side of Harry's, letting their lips brush again, and Harry grins when his brain catches up with his ears and processes Draco's meaning.

"Think you might have different results this time?" He feigns casual interest and pulls away long enough to look into Draco's eyes, which are still smiling as well.

"Can't hurt to try, can it?" Draco's attempt at nonchalance is about as good as Harry's, and they both begin to laugh, and once he gets started, Harry can't seem to stop.

He laughs at the unlikely situation he finds himself in, and the lightness in his chest that he didn't know he was weighing down with all the _not feeling _he's been doing for so long. He laughs because Draco's hair is tickling his forehead and his toes are tickling Harry's feet when he squirms to bring them closer together, and he laughs because apparently kissing him makes Draco happy enough to think he might be able to produce a Patronus after all.

He stares at Draco for a long moment before they rise, and basks at being stared at right back. The intimacy of it so far surpasses anything he's done or said for so long that he hardly knows what to make of it. Nor, if he's honest, does he know what to make of waking up in another man's bed still fully-clothed and with everyone's symbolic virtues still in tact.

"You're thinking this is weird, aren't you?" Draco murmurs, grinning.

He looks sort of perfect lying there with the side of his face pressed into Harry's pillow, their faces so close that the breath from Draco's words rustles Harry's hair. Perfect and unassuming, and Harry's abused view on reality tells him that no, in fact this is not weird, and that somehow all those years of animosity couldn't have been leading to anything else.

"Yes," he says quietly, then backpedals, "no...I don't know?" He searches Draco's face, making sure he hasn't managed to say something stupid with just those few words. Finding nothing, he goes on. "I wasn't expecting..."

Okay, he doesn't go on. Apparently _articulate Harry _has departed the castle, leaving _blushing, confused, but surprisingly happy Harry _behind. Neither version of himself is complaining, but Harry still wishes he could string a sentence together.

Draco leans in and kisses him carefully for a moment before pushing himself up to sitting.

"You're not wrong," he says, and Harry takes a little pleasure in the disappointment he feels when Draco gets out of bed.

Merlin but it feels good to _feel_.

"It's just..." Harry tries again. "We slept together, but we didn't _sleep _together. I don't know what..."

He sits up and gestures uncertainly between them. Draco laughs and stretches, and Harry watches sinuous muscles flex in his arms and in the space between his shirt and his waistband. Watches, but does not stare. No. Not staring.

Draco laughs again, which Harry takes to mean he probably _is_staring, so he shrugs.

"It's been rather a long time since I've _slept_with anyone on a first date, Harry," Draco is still laughing, "and I'd say last night was less of a date and more me trying to make you decide if you would have cared if I'd thrown you from the Astronomy Tower. I don't know what you're used to, Potter, but foreplay that was not."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Maybe not, but the kissing...and we slept in the same bed!"

Draco sits back down cross-legged on the bed, his knees brushing Harry's.

"Sometimes a person just needs comfort, Harry. A presence. Someone to be there. And not always only when they're awake. You looked like you needed that last night." Draco says. "As to the kissing...I like kissing. And it turns out I quite like kissing _you_." He shrugs, the look on his face unabashedly pleased.

Harry absently thinks he needs to ask Draco to teach him how to be that matter-of-fact, because he can barely look at Draco right now without blushing. He scratches his head, puzzling through Draco's words, which are true but not quite _right_, and his response, which feels important.

"I did," he says slowly, and Draco rewards him with a small smile. "But I don't think I needed _someone. _There have been _someones_, for one reason or another in my life. Men, yes, but also friends over the years." Harry looks uncertainly into Draco's eyes. "You...you got to me. No one's gotten to me in a long time. I needed that. I...I think I needed _you_. Merlin, I don't know how to say any of this without it sounding like I'm trying to..."

Draco smiles wider and cuts him off. "It's alright," he says. "I'm quite aware that _this _isn't foreplay either."

Harry laughs, relieved, then cuts off with a gasp as Draco leans to let his lips brush over the shell of Harry's ear.

"When the foreplay starts, Harry, I promise, you'll know."

His voice is low and his breath is hot on Harry's neck. Harry shivers, both at the feeling and the surge of excitement he feels at the words.

"You want _me_?" Harry wants to smack himself again, but offering comfort is one thing. Offering _foreplay_ is something else entirely. "Erm, I mean... No, actually, that's almost exactly what I mean. You _like_ me? Merlin, Draco, I'm practically a recluse, and we hated each other for years and now you want..._foreplay?_ With _me?_"

To Harry's consternation, Draco is now laughing so hard that he's shaking.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice still full of mirth a moment later. "I would have thought that was obvious. I like kissing, Harry, but I don't wander around snogging everyone I meet." He wipes a tear from his eye, still grinning at Harry. "Yes, I like you, you git. I've liked you for years. Possibly since before I broke your nose - I _am _sorry about that by the way." He reaches up and brushes a light touch over the bridge of Harry's nose, and his smile has turned wistful. "Luna did a bang-up job on it. She's an odd one, but there's no question that she went the right route being a healer."

Harry stares. "How do you know...?"

Draco shakes his head. "The world hasn't stood quite so still for the rest of us, you know." He says it gently, without judgement or scorn, for which Harry is grateful.

"I've never regretted it," Harry says, and Draco's face shifts slightly into something that looks suspiciously like the beginning of exasperation, so he hurries on. "Until now. I've missed so much without even knowing it. Missed you, apparently, among other things, and missed you becoming friends with my friends, and they haven't even thought I'd care enough to tell me."

"Would you have?" Draco asks.

Harry is silent for a moment.

"If I hadn't met you again, no." He concedes the point, and it tastes bitter on his tongue.

"Best they didn't tell you then," is all Draco says before he stands up, pulling Harry with him.

"How are you so bloody...accepting?" Harry splutters at him as Draco shoos him toward the door.

"I told you last night, Harry. Just live today, and tomorrow, and see what happens. Quit looking back, and quit worrying about what if. You can't go back and change any of it, and you shouldn't, even if you could. It happened. It's over." Draco sighs when Harry gapes at him.

"If I had to try to live with every single thing that stupid prat of a boy I used to be ever did, I'd drown in self-loathing. I can _never_right those wrongs. I can be sorry. I can be kind now, and attempt to find some compassion for people I once would have mocked. Hell, I can just keep my damn mouth shut. But I can't unbreak your nose, or take back calling Granger a Mudblood. And you can't regret the things you haven't done since the war. You can only start doing things now."

Harry can't think of a single thing to say, and apparently the part of his brain that allows words to spew from his mouth before he thinks is also dumbfounded, so instead he goes with the kissing option again. He pulls Draco's mouth to his with a yank of a fistful of t-shirt, and hopes to Merlin that the ferocity of his kiss says _thank you _in some language Draco understands.

It must, because Draco cups Harry's face in his hands and kisses him deeply, and this time it's Harry who pulls away because if _this _isn't foreplay, he's going to need to excuse himself. Panting and a little flushed, Draco seems to feel the same way, because he smiles and gently but firmly pushes Harry to the door.

"Go get dressed, Potter. You've a lesson to teach." Harry pulls a face at him as he gathers the clothes he'd worn the night before and passes through the doorway into the thankfully empty corridor. Draco's voice calls after him just before he closes the door. "And bring your broom, it's a good day for flying!"

Harry agrees, and as he looks out the windows that line the corridor to his room, he smiles and thinks perhaps today is a good day for just about anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I thought this would be a quick one-shot, and it got out of control. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until the eighth one goes up. If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days.

To everyone who is reading, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I'll respond as soon as I can, but in the meantime, please know I really do appreciate every one of your reviews, adds, hits, etc.

* * *

><p>Draco does not, in fact, produce a full Patronus charm. But he does manage a fairly strong light, bright and wispy from the end of his wand, and he can sustain it for quite a long time. Far from being disappointed, Draco is beaming at Harry, and Harry is once again reminded just how much has changed. The Draco he once knew would have pouted and made excuses and probably found a way to blame Harry (and possibly have thrown an errant hex at him when no one was looking).<p>

They practise for an hour or so, until it becomes clear that the light that shot from Draco's wand on only his second incantation is as much as he's going to get for today.

"You're on the right track," Harry says as they walk out onto the lawns, brooms in hand. "I'm honestly not certain if you need a happier memory, or if you just need to concentrate harder on the one you're using, but you're really close."

"Concentrate harder?" Draco smirks and reaches out to grab Harry's sleeve, pulling him up short.

He moves in until their faces are inches apart, and Harry rolls his eyes as Draco puts on a look of mock-concentration. The effect of the eyeroll is somewhat dampened, however, by the smile that may actually split Harry's face at Draco's outright admission that _he's _what Draco was thinking of. The ache in his chest is overpowering, and Harry never, ever wants it to stop.

"Not what I meant," Harry says, "but I'm not complaining."

Draco smiles back and runs his free hand up Harry's arm before letting it fall to his side, his gaze lingering on Harry's for a moment.

"Come on," he says as he turns, "we're wasting a beautiful afternoon staying on the ground."

Harry decides, as he revels in the wind in his hair and the sting of the cool fall day on his skin and the view from high above Hogwarts as he looks for the Snitch, that riding a broom really is like, well, riding a broom. Once you learn it, it doesn't really matter how long you go without flying, it comes back to you pretty quickly. He's chalking yesterday up to nerves, because today he feels like he's been flying every day for his entire life.

As he lets his gaze fall on Draco for a moment, hovering just below him and to his right, he wonders idly if _Draco _might be part of why he's feeling that way. When Draco catches him looking, he quirks a wry smile that turns to outright laughter when Harry puts his tongue out at him like a child, and Harry knows the answer to his own question. Strangely, he's not bothered by it. It doesn't scare him, doesn't make him nervous.

"I suppose that's what happens when you've nothing left to lose but yourself," he mutters.

He sees Draco's eyes sharpen a second before his own fall on the fluttering golden ball some distance below them and back toward the castle. It will take some manoeuvring, and Harry's lack of time on a broom recently does flash through his mind, but as Draco looks back over his shoulder with nothing but unbridled pleasure and the hint of a challenge on his face, Harry points the handle of his broom down and grits his teeth.

"Live today," he says into the wind as he streaks after Draco. "We'll just see what happens tomorrow."

They twist and flip and tear toward the castle, then reverse direction as the Snitch flits back up into the sky. They're even with one another now, and Harry's not sure he's ever flown this hard in his life. Nor enjoyed it so much.

"This is more like it, Potter!" Draco calls to him as they bank toward the owlery, and Harry just grins and flattens himself to his broom, putting out a hand as he nears the Snitch first.

When his fingers close around the cold metal, he whoops triumphantly without thinking, and Draco is laughing as he pulls up next to Harry.

"I'm starting to think you were holding out on me yesterday," Draco says as Harry grins at him. "I'd not have thought to see you fly like that ever again, must less in one day's time."

Harry shrugs. "I think I'd forgotten how much fun it was." He's winded, and his voice is coming out in light gasps, but he can't feel the fatigue that his muscles will soon scream with after that much effort because his entire body is buzzing with exhilaration. He nudges his broom closer to Draco's and he lets the smile slip from his face for a moment, just so Draco knows he's serious when he goes on. "Think I'd forgotten how much fun it is to _have _fun. Thank you."

Draco nods, looking out over the vast expanse of grounds and castle and hills beyond. Without looking at Harry, he reaches across the space between them to take Harry's hand in his own wind-chilled one and rests their twined fingers on his knee. Harry gulps and feels the telltale flush creep up his cheeks, and he hums aloud without meaning to when Draco's thumb begins feather-light strokes over his own.

_Gods, _he's missed touching. And being touched. And he didn't even know he missed it, not until now, when every brush of Draco's fingers drives him half-mad and soothes him all at once.

They hover for a long time, feet dangling from their brooms, fingers tangled together. They talk about nothing - Quidditch teams, books they've read, places they've visited. They kiss in between sentences, laughing as they balance between their brooms to bring wind-burned faces together and slide warm tongues between cold lips.

The sun begins to creep near the horizon before they fly at a leisurely pace toward the entrance to the castle again. Students are milling about in courtyards, but they land a fair distance away and walk back under a modified Disillusionment charm that Draco says will keep the students from noticing their progress.

It doesn't, however, keep one person from noticing, and Harry gasps in surprise when he comes face-to-face with Minerva McGonagall on the steps to the school's entrance. She looks remarkably the same, he thinks, stern, strong, wise, but with the gleam of a person who cares for every child she's ever taught in her eye. To Harry, she _is_Hogwarts, and everything it embodies, and he can't help but smile when he sees her, even though his heart is pounding in his chest.

"Headmistress," he says in greeting, not sure what else to say.

"Good evening gentlemen," she says, her clipped tones exactly the same as they were ten years ago. "Draco, an owl came for you from the Ministry about an hour ago, they're still refusing to admit to the idea that the Dementors are coming back, but they do have a few interesting things to say on the subject of some new charms they're trying to strengthen the Azkaban defences. The letter is on your desk in your office."

Draco is nodding, and Harry guesses the fear of the Dementors' return is a matter of more interest to the both of them than Draco let on. Then again, anyone who was at Hogwarts the first time Dementors set up residence outside its gates would have some fairly strong feelings on the subject.

Harry also realises that the headmistress has all but effectively dismissed Draco, something else that hasn't failed to catch Draco's notice, but he smiles softly at Harry and says, "I'll see you for supper," then takes his leave into the castle.

McGonagall peers up at Harry for a moment, then allows a small smile. "It's good to see you, Mr. Potter. Let's continue this in my office."

As he follows his old teacher through the castle and up the winding staircase to the old, familiar office, Harry can't help but feel a bit like he did in his first year. Though nothing forbade _this_foray on his broom, there is a nagging feeling like he's being dragged off for detention or to be told he can't stay at Hogwarts, just like the feeling he'd had that day so many years ago.

"How are you, Potter?" Headmistress McGonagall settles herself in the large, comfortable-looking chair behind an even larger desk in the middle of her office.

The portraits of headmasters past carry on around him, countless mutters and grumbles and conversations create a muffled din on the walls, though his eyes are drawn to two in particular. Professor Dumbledore peers down at him, sitting on a worn leather chaise with a book. He says nothing, but Harry sees him wink, and he's flooded with warmth for just a moment as every pleasant memory of the old man rushes through his head.

Just next to Dumbledore's portrait hangs the one that Harry knew would be here, but makes him shut his eyes against an unexpected sting just the same. Professor Snape, looking so life-like that Harry expects him to come out of the portrait and start belittling his Potions progress, scowls down at him. He's clad in his usual black, arms crossed over his chest. There's evidently a breeze in the portrait, making both his robes and hair blow in a rather intimidating fashion.

Harry can't help himself. He grins at the man. And waves. And to his great delight, Snape scowls even more deeply. Harry chuckles.

"I suspect he's wishing he could hex you." McGonagall's voice interrupts Harry's little reunion.

She's smiling now, and Harry feels relief course through him. He sits in the proffered chair across from her, then belatedly realises he hasn't answered her question.

"I'm...well. I think." He says sheepishly. "I'm a bit of a work-in-progress, if I'm honest. And it's nice to see you as well, Professor. Headmistress. Er..."

Harry flushes again, thinking perhaps _this_ is why he's avoided people for so long. He's absolute bollocks at this..._small talk_...thing.

"Minerva, Harry," she says, chuckling. "You're an adult, not my pupil any longer. Call me Minerva. Now, I see you and Draco have managed to bury the hatchet and start fresh, hm?"

Harry snorts at her. _Subtle, Professor,_ he thinks. _They really are meddlers, the lot of them._

"He...seems to understand," Harry says slowly, measuring the words. No doubt McGonagall knows more than she's letting on - it's her school now, and Harry knows better than to think it's silent about the comings and goings of its guests - but he's still trying out his newfound interest in giving a damn, so she'll have to come out and ask what she wants to know.

"He seems to understand most things these days," she says, a note of pride evident in her voice. "Every now and again, a teacher gets the great joy of meeting the adult one of her students has become, and he so far outweighs any expectations she ever had for him that she feels fortunate to have been one of those who have seen the transformation."

Harry wonders if he and Draco are far enough into their..._whatever it is _for him to feel pride on Draco's behalf. The sensation is tempered a bit though when a question comes unbidden to Harry's mind.

"And when that same teacher meets the man another of her students has become, and he's frittered away every ounce of potential? Then what, Professor?" He locks eyes with her, and purposefully doesn't use her first name. He doesn't know if he's truly earned it, not yet.

She considers him for a long moment.

"A wise question, Mr. Potter." Harry doesn't miss the emphasis on the _Mr. Potter_. "She is still a teacher, is she not? Perhaps, in the instance of that student, her job is not yet finished."

"What if he's forgotten how to learn?" Harry whispers.

McGonagall laughs, an unexpected, bright sound in the somber office.

"I think, in this case, someone has helped him remember that already," she says, looking pointedly at the broom resting against Harry's chair, and Harry feels himself flush. "But I've a proposal for you all the same, if you'll permit me a moment?"

Harry nods, grateful to her for understanding, grateful for yet another person in this castle who seems willing to offer a chance instead of looking, as he does, back on the last nine years and thinking the last thing on earth he deserves is a chance.

"Rolanda - Madam Hooch to you I suppose - has expressed her intent to retire, which will leave me without a flying instructor, and the school without a Quidditch official."

Harry looks at her blankly. He hadn't even realised Madam Hooch was still at Hogwarts. In point of fact, he doesn't remember when he saw her last as a student.

"It seems you can still fly," she goes on, "and I expect you keep up with Quidditch in your self-imposed exile. I've a mind to offer you her position, if you want it."

And there it is. The patented Minerva McGonagall _why no, Potter, I'm not going to expel you, I'm going to make you the youngest Seeker in a century _style of meddling. Harry is gobsmacked. No, actually, he's so far beyond gobsmacked that he's certain his mouth is hanging open.

"Potter, do shut your yap, you're like to catch flies." The drawling, pointed voice from overhead brings Harry to his senses, but when he looks up at Snape's portrait, the raven-haired man is smiling ever so slightly.

_Smug bastard_, Harry thinks.

"You want _me_ to be a teacher?" he asks incredulously, looking back at an amused McGonagall. "At _Hogwarts_?"

"I'm not authorised to offer positions at Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, so yes, I thought perhaps you could start here."

He's being mocked, he knows it, but he can't seem to shake the sense that this is so completely surreal, he must be in a dream. Two days ago, he was hungover and hadn't bothered to shower in three days. Last night he kissed Draco Malfoy and shared his bed, and today, his old teacher and now headmistress of Hogwarts is offering him a job. He can't decide if he should panic or laugh or look around to see if this is the newest, most elaborate Wizarding Wheeze George has come up with to date.

"Think about it," McGonagall says. "I know it's sudden, Potter, but I need a teacher, and you might be able to use the work. And it seems you've made quite an impression on at least one member of my staff. Or he's made one on you." She smiles in such a knowing way that Harry blushes. "See how you get on with the students in Draco's class. I'll need an answer by the end of the week, but no sooner."

Harry manages a nod, then shakes himself.

"Thank you, Professor. Minerva. I'm...honoured, truly." He says. "I'm just not sure I'm qualified."

That, evidently, is the wrong thing to say. McGonagall regards him from across her desk like he is a particularly slow first year.

"Potter. Can you, or can you not fly a broom?"

He nods.

"And can you, or can you not remember the rules of Quidditch, possibly well enough to explain it to someone else?"

He nods again.

"And was that, or was that not you I just saw tearing past my window with Draco Malfoy chasing a Snitch like you were at a tryout for Puddlemere United?"

"It was, but-"

"This is my school, and I decide if a candidate is qualified for a position here. I've offered you one, so clearly that means you _are_qualified. Whether you choose to believe that, and whether you choose to accept are entirely up to you." She sounds so very remarkably like the Transfiguration professor of his youth that he's almost surprised she doesn't end the last bit by docking ten points from Gryffindor for his utter stupidity.

Harry wonders if perhaps his earlier assessment of his level of shock might not have been a bit hasty, because he's run out of synonyms for gobsmacked. The look on her face dares him to defy her though, and in an effort to keep with his new-found habit of at least attempting to think before he speaks, Harry nods.

"I'll think it over, I really will. Thank you." He rises, considers, then finally puts a hand out awkwardly, making to leave.

McGonagall considers the hand for a moment, then rolls her eyes and stands.

"I've known you since you were a baby, fool boy. You needn't get formal on me now." She comes around the desk and puts her hands on Harry's shoulders. "Nice to have you back, Harry."

And then she hugs him, and he's so far past surprise at this point that he hugs her back.

"It's...rather nice to be back, I think," he says softly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This was a plot bunny that wouldn't let me be. I thought this would be a quick one-shot, and it got out of control. It's complete now, and is eight relatively short chapters. I'll post one each day from now until the eighth one goes up. If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days.

To everyone who is reading, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I'll respond as soon as I can, but in the meantime, please know I really do appreciate every one of your reviews, adds, hits, etc.

* * *

><p>Harry walks down the spiralling staircase from the Headmistress's office alone. He's overwhelmed, confused, and he <em>thinks<em>a bit pleased. Still, when he came to Hogwarts looking for something that made sense, none of this was what he thought he'd find.

He wanders through the castle for a while, dodging large groups of students, but finding they really don't pay him much attention. He keeps his head down and his fringe covering the faint pink line on his forehead just in case though. It gives him a chance to watch them casually as he passes, and suddenly he's not sure what exactly he's been so afraid of all this time. They really are just children, some bigger or louder than others. Harry knows some of them will be insufferable gits, like the Malfoy of old, and some will be insufferable know-it-alls, like Hermione had been. But still, they are only children...

Harry starts, realising he's wandered to Draco's doors without meaning to. He finds himself standing there, wondering if he should tell Draco about what's just happened. He wonders if Draco already knows. He wonders if it's strange that he _wants _to tell Draco. It's been a long time since he's had news of note, and even longer since it's been anything particularly _good_. Not to mention that he's managed to mostly alienate everyone in his life he'd tell anything to, though he suspects if he accepts this offer, Ron and Hermione will be over the moon. Mostly because he'll finally start leaving the house on a regular basis. In clean clothes.

"You coming in or not?" Draco's voice echoes out into the corridor, startling Harry from his thoughts.

He rolls his eyes and grins, and wonders if Draco has charmed all his doorways to alert him to visitors, because Harry's sure he wasn't loud enough to be heard inside. Draco's sitting room is dimly lit, owing to the sun dipping below the hills beyond the lake, but a cheery fire is blazing in the hearth, and it's comfortable and quiet. Draco sits in an armchair in front of the fire, a glass of amber liquid in his hand and a faraway look in his eyes as he gazes into the flames.

Harry sets the broom inside the door and pulls off his shoes and the extra jumper he'd been wearing to keep the brisk afternoon air at bay and shuffles over to sit on the floor just in front of Draco's feet, back against the hearth. Draco eyes him, amused.

"Something wrong with my furniture?" he asks, looking down at Harry, then at the other chair at his side.

Harry grins, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire at his back. He takes a deep, slow breath, then lifts his head again. A glass floats in front of his eyes, filled with whatever Draco is drinking, and Harry plucks it appreciatively out of the air. It's warm and smooth, and burns sweet as he swallows.

"You've lovely furniture," he says, answering Draco's inquiring look, "I just happen to like the floor."

"Suit yourself," Draco says, still amused. "Are you hungry?"

Harry doesn't answer him. He's examining the firewhiskey in his glass, admiring the way the light from the fire catches in the liquid and reflects from the crystal. And trying to decide if he should tell Draco what McGonagall said or not.

_Fuck it_.

"You didn't tell me Madam Hooch was retiring," he says finally, still looking at the glass in his hands instead of at Draco.

"I didn't know, is she?" Draco replies, and Harry looks up, searching for any indication the words aren't true, though he doesn't know why it matters.

Draco just looks interested and a little confused though, and Harry smiles. Evidently they weren't in cahoots after all. He nods.

"She is, apparently. McGonagall told me. She also told me to call her Minerva. That was surreal."

Draco laughs. "You called me Draco easily enough," he says.

"You're my _age_," Harry protests. "You weren't ever my teacher. It's weird!"

"You'll grow accustomed to it," Draco is still laughing, and Harry realises that Draco has spent a great deal of the last few days laughing at him.

He finds he doesn't mind much, which is almost as strange as calling Professor McGonagall _Minerva_.

"I suppose I'll have to, won't I?" he asks without thinking, then bites his tongue. Well, that's sorted then.

"Indeed," Draco says, still casual, not connecting the dots, because why would he? "You didn't answer me, are you hungry? I can send for supper if you like."

Harry grips the glass and looks up at Draco. Why is this so _hard_?

_Fuck._

He knows why this is so hard. If he tells Draco, it's real. He has to consider it. He has to _do_it, really, because he knows he can. He killed Voldemort, for Merlin's sake. He can teach a bunch of 11-year-olds not to fall from their brooms.

But the stars still bear down on him at night and the world is still huge, although it's much less empty for the presence of the handsome blonde man staring down at him from his plush armchair. He takes a deep breath.

"Harry?" Draco looks worried, and Harry realises he's been silent a long time.

"McGonagall offered me Madam Hooch's job. Teaching flying. And Quidditch. Here."

The words tumble out all at once, almost running together into one very long one. He gulps, then looks up at Draco, who has gone very still. He is so still and so quiet for so long that it's Harry's turn to worry. Perhaps he shouldn't have said anything. Perhaps this _kissing flirting foreplay_thing he and Draco have stirred up is just a one-off that was only going to last as long as Harry was here. Perhaps he should get up from this floor right now and go back to his-

"Are you going to accept?" Draco's voice is so low that Harry barely hears the words, and his hands are gripping his glass so hard Harry thinks it might shatter.

"I...erm..." Harry looks at Draco, looking for _any_sign of whether Draco wants him to say yes or no or that he doesn't know, and runs his hand over his hair.

"Stop that, you're going to tear it all out if you don't leave it alone, and despite what I may have said to you when we were younger, you have rather nice hair," Draco snaps and moves forward on his chair so he's only perched on the very end. "Now are you going to accept or aren't you?"

Harry, bewildered, pulls his hand into his lap and stares up at Draco.

"I was thinking about it," he mumbles. "Accepting, that is."

He holds his breath, waiting for something, _anything_to tell him if he's said the right thing or the wrong thing, or if there's even a thing to say. The silence drags on too long though, and he blows the air out in a rush and scrambles for an explanation.

"It's just, well, it's flying, not potions or spells, so it's not as though I can mess it up too badly. And you said yourself I should maybe start living, and this is a step, isn't it? Though if you don't want me here, I can say no. I didn't answer yet, I wanted to...to talk to you first, so if you don't want-"

"Merlin, Harry, shut up!" Draco says, and he slides from his chair and onto the floor in a smooth motion. He sets his drink negligently on the floor and crawls the couple of feet to where Harry is still sitting, still looking for some sign of how Draco feels about any of this.

Which he gets about five seconds later, when Draco continues crawling over his legs and settles onto his lap.

"Are you sure?" Draco asks carefully, softly, his eyes boring into Harry's, and Harry doesn't know if he's talking about the job or something much bigger.

Harry stares back, unblinking. He _is_sure, really. It's time, he knows it is. He could go back to the safe, empty, lonely darkness of Grimmauld Place and shut down again, but he doesn't want to. He nods.

"I'm sure," he whispers, and then Draco is kissing him, and he doesn't have to say anything else.

This isn't the slow, unhurried kissing from this morning, and it isn't the comforting kiss from the night before. This is something else, and Harry never wants it to stop. His head is tipped back, Draco's hands running over his face and into his hair, holding Harry still so he can deepen the kiss. Harry slides his own hands up Draco's thighs on either side of him and brings them to rest lightly on his belt.

For a long time, there is nothing but teeth tugging on lips and tongues intertwining and wandering hands and gasping breaths, and Harry is lost in every kiss and touch. Draco tears his lips from Harry's and begins to trail softly-biting kisses across Harry's upturned jaw and then down the side of his neck. Harry moans without realising it, the sound of his voice echoing in the otherwise silent room. Draco chuckles softly between kisses, and the vibration and breath on Harry's neck make him shiver and tighten his hands on Draco's waist again. He can't remember when he's been so turned on by nothing more than kissing, but _Merlin_, Draco is _good_at it.

"Y-you're going to leave a m-mark," he gasps as his brain registers that it's Draco sucking on the sensitive skin at his throat that's making him writhe on the floor.

"Good," Draco whispers, but he pulls away and presses his mouth to Harry's again and groans himself when Harry nips at his bottom lip.

A moment - or maybe it's an hour, Harry has no clue and doesn't care - Draco pulls back, palms against Harry's chest. His eyes are glazed and his cheeks are flushed, and when kiss-reddened lips curve into a smile, Harry nearly whimpers at the sight.

"Gods, you're so..." Harry whispers, reaching up with one hand to slide just the tips of his fingers over Draco's face, but he doesn't finish, because there isn't a right word.

Draco catches his hand before it falls and brings it to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger, then catching the first one between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth. Harry, whose latest draught between lovers has been rather lengthy, whimpers at the sight of Draco's mouth wrapped around his finger and the feel of his tongue teasing up the underside of it. Harry can't tear his eyes away from Draco's. His skin is heated, as though every inch that Draco's eyes flick over, every bare spot his fingers touch is set ablaze.

"Draco," he whispers, though he has nothing to say, he just wants to say it because it tastes delicious on his tongue.

Draco smiles around Harry's finger, then lets it slip from between his lips.

"Harry," he whispers back, and Harry smiles lazily, because Draco understands.

Draco slides his hands down Harry's chest and settles warm fingers just under the hem of Harry's shirt. It's the lightest of touches, but Harry feels every muscle in his torso contract, flexing against the fiery trail Draco's fingers leave in their wake. He stops suddenly, hands going still as his eyes, which had been watching as Harry's shirt began to ride up his stomach, fly back up to meet Harry's again. This time, his smile is smug, predatory. _Sexy_, Harry's lust-fogged brain provides, and it's true.

"In case it's somehow escaped your attention," Draco says, voice smooth and low, "_this_, Harry, is foreplay."

Harry grins now, and he reaches up to grasp Draco's shirt in his fist and pulls him in close for another kiss that only lasts until Draco's hands resume pushing Harry's own shirt up his chest and become insistent that it comes off altogether. Harry obligingly puts his arms up, though Draco abandons the shirt once it's cleared Harry's head, and immediately begins kissing every new spot on Harry's chest he can get his lips on.

When his teeth find a nipple, Harry cries out and arches his back, and Draco does it again, harder this time. Harry's hips jerk up of their own accord, and Draco pushes back against him. The angle is awkward and there are far too many layers of clothing in the way, but when Harry feels Draco's arousal press against his own, he nearly weeps with relief and want and need. The logical part of his mind tells him he's being completely ridiculous, that of course Draco wants him, what else does all this time and energy and kissing lead to? But the part of him that's afraid of the stars is only silenced when he feels the physical evidence of Draco's want, and that silence is sweet.

"I take it this - _oh - _means it's o-okay if - _mmmmyes_- I s-stay?" Harry says as he grips Draco's belt again.

"You'll be lucky if I let you leave this room, much less the school," Draco rasps, and the words set Harry on fire all over again.

He reaches out to pull Draco's shirt off, but Draco stills his hands, holding them gently in his own.

"Live _now_, Harry, don't forget," he whispers, eyes intense, before he lets go of Harry's fingers, and pulls the shirt over his head.

Harry is puzzled for a split second, then horrified, then repentant, then humbled. Pale, silvery lines criss-cross faintly down the length of Draco's torso, and Draco's words forbid an apology, forbid regret, even though Harry did this to him, and he has no right to forgiveness. He looks at them closely, marvelling at how the lines shine in the firelight, how on Draco, even the leftovers of one of the most wretched things he's ever done are horribly beautiful. He runs his fingers over them softly, then flicks his eyes back up to meet Draco's.

He lets his fingers continue their roaming, begging with his eyes and his touch for Draco to understand that he _is_sorry, but that he won't ask forgiveness for the past, because he knows that's not part of who they are right this instant. Draco watches him, gaze unwavering, until Harry's fingers skim down his shoulders to his arms. Then his breath hitches, and Harry realises there's more on display here than just the scars left behind from a stupid boy with a spell.

Inky black lines contrast so sharply with the smooth, pale skin on the inside of Draco's left arm that it almost hurts Harry's eyes to look at it. His glasses have been dislodged during their kissing - he makes a mental note to ask Draco where they've gone later, since he knows he'll never find them himself - so the edges of the Mark are fuzzy. But he lifts it closer to his face, unable to resist the temptation to just _look_. Draco is, once again, very still, watching Harry and waiting, much as Harry had moments ago when he told Draco he was thinking of staying.

Something Harry can't name, something he can't even find the origin of in his head makes him lift Draco's arm to his lips and press a soft kiss right into the center of the Mark. Draco draws in a ragged inhalation, and Harry drops his arm and bows his head to Draco's chest, kissing the center of the mass of scars the same way, just once. Then he looks up at Draco.

"That's sorted then," he says softly, and starts trailing more kisses over Draco's collarbones and throat. "Now I'd rather like to see what else you call foreplay."

The gleam in Draco's eyes is unmistakable, and he kisses Harry again fiercely. Everything about this moment tells Harry he's making the right choice, that it's time to start living again, and that he's chosen just exactly the right place to start. He's certain there are flames beneath his skin now, spreading like wildfire every time Draco grazes just _there_ with his fingers or brushes his lips like _that_. Belatedly, he realises his magic is reacting to Draco's touch, surging through his veins with the sparks of pleasure.

The idea that something as inherent as his own magic is responding so sharply to Draco is intoxicating, and Harry's vision tunnels down until all he sees is pale skin and reddened lips and intense grey eyes. His skin is damp and so is Draco's beneath his own fingers, the mingled heat of their bodies together creating the slightest sheen of sweat on flexing muscles and arching torsos. Harry turns his face into Draco's neck to lick the salty taste of it into his mouth. He revels in every sound from Draco's lips, matching each one unconsciously with one of his own.

It turns out Draco calls a great many things foreplay, most of which make Harry writhe and whimper, and several of which make him beg Draco to stop before he comes. He notes hazily that they're both still dressed from the waist down, something his brain and body are begging him to remedy _right now. _

Draco is still in his lap, his hips rolling and pressing into Harry's rhythmically with each kiss and caress. Harry reaches between them to fumble with the buckle at of Draco's belt. The metal clinks noisily in contrast to the only other sounds in the room, those of ragged breaths and whispered pleas for _moreyesfuckyes_, and Harry's fingers shake as the sound drives home what he's doing. What _they're_doing.

There is no graceful way to divest Draco of his trousers as long as he's straddling Harry's knees; Harry knows it, and Draco knows it. And so, when Harry hooks his thumbs in the waistband, Draco takes his wrists, stilling them. He leans back so that he rocks onto the balls of his feet, then rises - with a great deal of grace, Harry notes with amusement - staring down at Harry from above. He pushes his trousers and pants over his hips and lets them pool at his feet, and Harry bites his lip, because the only thing more beautiful than Draco Malfoy right this second is Draco Malfoy naked. His skin glows in the firelight, and his confidence is overpoweringly sexy. Harry wants to lick every inch of him.

Draco looks down at him, pointedly letting his eyes flick to Harry's trouser-clad legs, then lowers himself back to Harry's lap, sitting farther back and bending down to kiss a line from Harry's sternum to his belly button as his fingers deftly undo buttons and curl over the top of his waistband, tugging. Harry arches up from the floor and Draco drags his clothes from his body, never pulling his mouth from Harry's skin. He kisses hipbones and licks at Harry's navel, and when Harry feels the drag of lips over his erection, he whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut.

Draco chuckles. The resulting hum over the head of Harry's cock is nearly more than he can bear, or so he thinks until Draco takes him completely into his mouth, and then his whimpers turn to something far more basic, almost primal. Ever nerve ending is on fire, every muscle is so tight he feels like he'll snap, and the hot, wet suction on his cock is driving him over the edge so much faster than he ever thought possible.

He wants to touch Draco, but all his fingers can do is scrabble over the carpet so hard he thinks they'll be burned later. Draco's tongue flicks over and over his hypersensitive flesh, and he struggles not to thrust into that perfect mouth.

Until it pulls away, and Harry whines before he can stop himself. Hot breath ghosts over the wet flesh though, and the hand that Draco has wrapped around him tightens.

"Look at me," he whispers.

Harry, eyes still squeezed shut, shakes his head violently.

"Harry," Draco whispers again before dropping his lips to Harry's inner thigh and nipping at it once, "_look at me_."

Harry peels his eyes open and looks down, just in time to catch the sight of Draco's mouth closing around his cock again. He'd been on overload before, just from Draco's touch. But this is more than he can take, and he cries out and comes as Draco licks and sucks and teases and grips. He fights to keep his eyes open, to keep them pinned to Draco as he shudders and writhes. Draco slides his free hand between his own legs and begins to stroke himself, and something about it amplifies Harry's own pleasure. He moans again, then reaches down to drag his fingers through Draco's hair.

"Let me," he whispers shakily, and Draco releases him, kissing a winding trail up Harry's belly and chest that leaves a tingling sensation in its wake.

Draco's mouth is bitter-salty when he finally presses his lips to Harry's and sucks gently on Harry's tongue in a suddenly-very-familiar fashion that makes Harry shiver. Harry blindly reaches down to wrap his hand around Draco's, and he lets Draco guide him, show him exactly how he likes to be touched and teased, taking pleasure in every gasp into his mouth when Harry twists his wrist or tightens his grip.

At last, Draco's hand falls away, reaching up instead to wrap around Harry's neck. He pulls his mouth away from Harry's and lets his head fall to Harry's shoulder, and his breath hitches as he comes over Harry's hand and whispers Harry's name over and over into his neck.

They stay there for a long while, slumped against one another, half-sitting, half-lying against Draco's fireplace on the carpet. Harry listens to Draco's breathing as it calms and begins to even out, and marvels once again at how much this seems to make sense, even though it makes no sense at all. He runs his fingers up and down the warm, bare skin of Draco's back, delighting in the hum it elicits from Draco as he tightens his grip on Harry's neck.

At last, Draco pulls away, swiping a casual hand through Harry's hair and smiling.

"Get dressed," he says, and Harry frowns at him.

"Are you kicking me out after...well, after _that_?" Harry splutters, gripping Draco's arm as he tries to get up.

Draco rolls his eyes and whispers a spell that vanishes all traces of his orgasm before he settles back onto Harry's chest for a moment. He leans in to kiss Harry softly.

"I thought we'd go back upstairs, see if we could start curing you of this star problem," he says against Harry's lips. "I love the stars. If we're going to be spending more nights like _this_," another kiss, "I'd like you to be able to come up with me. I spend a lot of time up there..."

Harry smiles as he trails off, and nods. "You said you'd teach me," he says, kissing Draco one more time before allowing him to get up again.

They dress quietly, passing discarded articles of clothing to their proper owner as needed and letting their fingers brush longer than needed when they do. When they walk out of Draco's rooms, Harry grins when Draco takes his hand in the corridor, linking their fingers. He feels like a schoolboy, sneaking through the halls after dark, and he absently wonders if this is what it could have been like, if everything had been different back then.

A sideways glance at the handsome face at his side, a face so full of the calm of a man who's learned more from his years than most, tells Harry that it had to happen _this_way or not at all.

They walk up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower side-by-side, neither willing to drop the other's hand, so their shoulders bump with every step in the narrow staircase. Harry laughs, deliberately nudging Draco's just a little harder, just so he'll do it back, and so he'll laugh as well. They stop to kiss so many times that Harry thinks they may never get to the top, not that he cares, and the laughter and kisses buoy him when they finally do. The stars, though still vast, don't bear down quite as hard when they come into view. Draco squeezes Harry's hand.

"It helps to look for something in them," he says quietly, pulling Harry to the rail. "Constellations, Muggle satellites, something that makes one look different." He scans the sky for a moment, looking out, then leans over and points. "Like there, you see those four that make a wonky square?"

Harry squints, eyes darting from one white dot to the next. He shakes his head helplessly. Draco kisses his cheek, then comes to stand behind him, wrapping one arm around his waist tightly and lifting Harry's hand with the other so their arms are both extended in front of Harry's face. He leans into the comfort of Draco's embrace, breathing in the cold night air and grounding himself against the solid weight at his back.

He can do this.

"There," Draco says, using Harry's finger to point. "One, two, three, four, you see? And then there's a line just from that corner there?"

Slowly, Harry nods. Just as Draco counts off each star, it's almost as though they glow more brightly, stand out against the canvas of the night sky.

"That's Ursa Minor," he says, then laughs. "The Little Dipper. You see how it's a bit like a spoon? Then over here," he turns their bodies just a bit, "if you turn your head, you'll see almost the same shape, only larger?"

He points, emphasising the location of each star with a jab of their fingers again, and to his amazement, Harry nods, actually seeing it.

"The Big Dipper."

Harry laughs. "Spoons," he says, shaking his head. "The first thing I ever manage to see in the star is spoons."

Draco laughs with him. "Well, there are others, but here." He takes Harry's hand again, this time dragging it slowly in an arch between the two constellations he's already shown him. "You see that, where those stars there arch up and down, and then run back up again? And then a small figure at the top?"

Harry squints again. An idea takes place in his head, a picture even, as he looks at the shape Draco's just outlined.

"Looks like a dragon," he says absently, tracing the line with their hands again.

Draco's laugh is clear and loud in the silent night sky.

"What, you said to look for pictures!" Harry says a bit defensively. "You needn't make fun."

Draco pulls the arm that had been outstretched down to wrap around Harry's waist, gripping him firmly with both arms. He presses his lips to Harry's cheek again, then to his jaw, then his neck.

Harry squirms.

"Oh you needn't pout," Draco says, face still at Harry's neck, and he kisses him again, open-mouthed and hot against the night air. "I'm laughing because that's Draco."

Harry is puzzled. He squirms again, though this time only with the goal of turning around. He looks at Draco, who is smiling, but not in a mocking way.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

Draco jerks his chin toward the place they'd been gazing a moment before. "That constellation you said looks like a dragon looks that way because it _is_a dragon. That's the constellation Draco."

Absurdly, the first thing Harry can think to say is, "You have your own _stars_?"

Draco laughs again, the same clear, bright laugh from a moment before, though now that Harry can see his face, he knows it's not mocking. It's pleased.

"I was named for the stars, you berk, not the other way around."

"I know that," Harry says, grinning in spite of himself. "Prat."

He leans in to kiss Draco again, for the thousandth time today, perhaps, though it's still as much a heady rush as the first one had been, then turns again. This time, he doesn't even try to hide it when he leans into Draco's hold.

"Draco," he says, looking back up into the stars. "I think I rather like that one."

Teeth nip at his ear before soft lips brush his jaw. Then Draco reaches up to tilt Harry's chin sideways so their mouths are only a breath apart.

"I told you I'd teach you to like the stars," Draco breathes.

And kisses him again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **All fictional elements referred to herein belong to their respective owners. Harry Potter is Rowling's. The title and references to _Wildfires_ belong to The Limousines. Very little of consequence is mine. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** And so we reach the end of the little plot bunny that could. To everyone who has read, and to those of you who have commented: I am so very grateful. I do plan to catch up with each of you, I just can't seem to catch up with myself yet. If you've never listened to _Wildfires _by The Limousines, go do so. The title and a number of vague references in this story are based on it, and it's been on repeat in my head and on my iPod for days. Enjoy the ending!

* * *

><p>The next morning begins far earlier than the previous two, owing to the fact that it's Monday, which means Draco has classes to teach. Which, in turns, means <em>Harry<em> has classes to teach.  
>Fortunately for Harry, Draco has some very interesting ways to alleviate the panic that sets in almost as soon as he opens his eyes, and the fact that they've slept without pyjamas this time makes most of his prescribed activities even easier to accomplish.<p>

Harry resists the urge to beg Draco to stay in bed all day, knowing that today is the next step, the one he has to take before he can tell McGonagall - _Minerva_, his mind scolds him - that he's going to accept her offer. It would be so easy to give into that old, familiar paralysis that's kept him safely _not living _for the past decade. But the warmth he feels wash over him as Draco teases him out of bed with the promise of a shared shower is overpowering, and Harry grins as Draco mutters over his shoulder that he's glad he set his wake-up charm earlier than normal.

Harry isn't hungry, and Draco takes pity on him and says he'll bring him some toast and a cup of tea from the Great Hall, but that he still has to appear at breakfast as it's a school day.

"You'll be expected at the staff table too, you know," Draco says as he kisses Harry's lips lightly on his way out.

Harry nods. "I know, but not yet. Not today."

Draco smiles and straightens Harry's collar. "You conquered the stars last night, Harry Potter. A hall full of teenagers can wait a while longer."

Harry grins and pulls Draco down to kiss him again before shoving him out the door.

"You look rather handsome, by the way," Draco says from the doorway, and Harry blushes a bit, pleased. "Try not to ruin the effect while I'm gone." He eyes Harry, and his gaze turns to an exaggerated leer. "Then again, perhaps you could look a bit less handsome, or we might be late to my first class."

He laughs as Harry pulls a face at him, and Harry laughs too, grateful for the distraction from his nerves.

By the time Draco returns from breakfast, the sight of the toast turns his stomach, but he chokes it down.

"These will be sixth years," Draco is saying as they stride towards his classroom. "They're fairly competent, and they understand the basics behind the charm, or they should if they've done their homework. My seventh years come in before lunch, and you saw the fifth year class at the end of the day on Friday. If today goes well and you'd like them for another session or two, that's fine, but if you'll get them through today, I can make due the rest of the week."

_If you hate it_ goes unsaid, and Harry is grateful, because he doesn't want to hate it. He doesn't want to be terrified of a room full of teenagers, and he doesn't want to let Draco down. He also desperately doesn't want to find a reason _not_to take the Flying Instructor position. Reaching the door, he takes a deep breath and follows Draco into the classroom, mindful of the curious eyes that watch him as he makes his way to the front of the room.

"Take your seats please," Draco says, voice clear and clipped.

Harry isn't even a little surprised when every student in the room scrambles to their chairs. He resists the urge to find one himself, so full of confident authority is Draco's voice.

"A few of you may recognise my colleague here," he gestures to Harry, who finds himself trying to stand up a little straighter under the scrutiny of two dozen pairs of eyes. "I've asked Mr. Potter to come in and teach you a bit about the Patronus charm. Yes, Mr. Smith?"

Draco looks at a young wizard whose hand has shot up in a manner very reminiscent of Hermione's.

"Why are you not teaching it, Professor?"

Draco smiles obligingly. "Some of you may be more aware of Mr. Potter's history than others. Suffice to say he produced a fully-formed Patronus in his third year, and was teaching it to some of our classmates by his fifth. You'll find very few wizards better equipped to teach you this particular spell, Mr. Smith. And sometimes the learning process is bettered by mixing things up a bit."

Harry admires the way Draco deflects the question, never saying he can't produce the charm himself, and yet answering in such a complete way that the students are nodding and whispering excitedly. Draco looks at Harry.

"They're all yours," he says under his breath, and he touches Harry's lower back lightly as he passes by on his way to perch on the edge of his desk, face expectant but encouraging.

Harry takes a deep breath. "Er, good morning," he says. "Like Dr- Professor Malfoy said, I'm only going to try to explain a bit about the Patronus to you. I don't expect that you'll all be able to conjure one today, and some of you may never be able to conjure one at all. Many wizards don't ever conjure one, so don't think you're doing anything wrong." He lets his eyes flick to Draco, who smiles slightly. "Does anyone have questions before we start?"

He loathes the fact that he's asked the question, but he'd rather get this out of the way than not. To his surprise, only one hand goes up. A young witch with clever eyes and a rather nice smile clears her throat when Harry nods at her. He knows what's coming, and he braces himself for it.

"Mr. Potter, I only wondered if...well...is it true you were the youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a century?"

Or not. Harry looks at her, surprised, and is grateful when Draco rescues him so he doesn't stand there gaping at a 16-year-old girl for the next 10 minutes.

"Miss Pennington is the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain," he says, "and rather an aficionado of sorts. She's a walking encyclopaedia of Quidditch facts." He turns to face the beaming Miss Pennington. "Although perhaps this particular line of questioning could wait until after Mr. Potter's lesson?"

She blushes and smiles, because there's that fond tone again, the one that admonishes without humiliating. It's impressive, and oddly attractive, Harry notices. Perhaps because it's just another in a long line of indications of how much things have changed since Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy met 16 years ago. Draco nods at him to continue, and Harry looks around one more time. No more questions come though, and he finds himself relieved, and buoyed. Perhaps he can do this after all.

"Right, so the thing about a Patronus," he says, "is that a great deal of it hinges upon your ability to conjure and hold the happiest memory you can think of. Everyone think of a memory."

He scans the room.

"Anyone brave enough to share theirs?" he asks, remembering Remus Lupin's voice in his ear when he told him the first memory he tried. _That's not good enough...that's not _nearly_ good enough._

Several hands go up. Harry points to a blonde witch in the front row who's chewing on her lip nervously.

"Er, the first time I taught my baby sister to say my name?" she squeaks.

Harry grins. "Yes! Precisely, that's excellent!" The girl beams and Draco smiles at him. "Anyone else?"

A dark-haired wizard in the back of the room speaks up. "My first trip to Diagon Alley," he says. "I'm Muggleborn."

Harry thinks back to his first trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid. He remembers the wonder at realising magic existed at all. He smiles encouragingly at the boy. "I think that might do it," he says. "If not, we might experiment with a different one, but I remember my first trip like it was yesterday, and it was quite a sight indeed."

Several more students volunteer their memories, and though a few require some tweaking or some urging for more information, Harry is pleased.

"Now, focus as hard as you can on that memory," he says to the class, who are now out of their chairs, wands in hand. "And say _Expecto Patronum_. Practise once or twice before you use your wands."

The room becomes a din, and after a minute, Harry instructs them to try with their wands. To his amazement, four of them manage a wisp of an animal before their spells go out, and eight more produce enough light to be more than a little promising. Several more attempts and some guidance from Harry, and three more manage some light.

Harry, delighted, looks to the front of the room at Draco, who is still sitting on the front of his desk. He's grinning at Harry, looked equally delighted. Harry makes his way up to the desk, leaning against it casually next to where Draco sits, just close enough to brush Draco's thigh with his hip.

"Nicely done, Professor Potter," Draco says under his breath, his tone playful.

Harry beams, both at the praise and at the title, since it means a good bit more than just that he's taught a few students the beginnings of a Patronus.

Something that looks remarkably like a beaver spirals up into the air from one boy's wand, and he whoops, and Harry barely resists the urge to join him. He leans over to nudge Draco with his shoulder instead, because he's pretty sure snogging the breath out of the Dark Arts professor in front of his sixth year class is forbidden, especially to someone who's only just a candidate for a teaching job.

In answer, Draco pulls his own wand from his sleeve, so casually that Harry almost doesn't notice. He nudges Harry back but doesn't look at him, and whispers, "Expecto Patronum."

A bird rises from the end of Draco's wand. Not just any bird though, not to anyone who was at Hogwarts when they were students. The line of the wings and the beak and the crest are unmistakable, and the majesty takes Harry's breath away.

"It seems," Draco says, watching the wispy creature take flight above their heads, "that even my Patronus believes I've risen from the proverbial ashes. Not bad, eh Potter?"

He fails utterly at his attempt at nonchalance, but Harry lets it go, distracted as he is by the flight of the phoenix Draco has produced. Finally, he can't stop himself.

"What did you think of?" he asks, wonder evident in his voice.

Draco smiles and finally tears his eyes from the bird to look right at Harry, and Harry thinks they might as well be the only two people in the whole castle in that moment.

"You," he says, and he lets his hand slide over Harry's where it sits on his desk, hidden from the eyes of the students who are still throwing beams of light from their wands. "When you aligned your stars."

Harry laughs aloud, and Draco's Patronus swoops over their heads, circling playfully.

"I think you aligned them," he says, linking their fingers together and squeezing for just a moment, basking in the glow of Draco's words and his smile and the warmth of his touch, and the knowledge that all of those are _his_ for as long as he wants, "and as I recall, they were _your_ stars. I just needed you to help me find them."

*fin*


End file.
